


Bread and Lighthouses

by Ayla221bee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baker Greg, Disability, Disabled Character, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Greg is Sweet, Lighthouse Keeper AU, Lighthouses, M/M, Romance, Scotland, Zero to married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 51,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27756805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayla221bee/pseuds/Ayla221bee
Summary: 'He believed that it was only with nature and his isolation from the rest of the world that he would be able to create something beautiful.  It was after reading Walden that he had felt inspired to accept the post. He wondered if being in the Scottish highlands in order to look after a lighthouse would allow him to live deliberately and see the essential facts of life, and would perhaps learn what it meant to live. He hoped that he would be able to discover how sublime the world could be once more, he had only experienced the meanness of it over the years. 'Mycroft ends up taking an opportunity as a lighthouse keeper in Scotland to take comfort in the isolation to avoid his past. Greg has been running the local bakery  for the last three years after a life in London.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 106
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sandwastesinthevoidofmychest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/gifts).



> No one probably needed this fic or even thought about a lighthouse keeper Mystrade fic before. I never did until a few days ago, hopefully, it will be a somewhat okayish read and fun for me to write! Sorry for the bad title!

Mycroft had never minded the isolation and if you asked him, he said that he much preferred it to the company of others. He welcomed isolation like it was an old friend, believing that it would be the remedy to his problems in his life back on the mainland. It was half the reason why he had accepted the post in the first place, he needed time away from the rest of the world. 

The opportunity was golden and he knew that he would be a fool not to take it. The isolation provided him solace from the world. There was a scattering of crofts and the occasional house which was near the lighthouse. His neighbours were miles away from him and he rarely saw them, only occasionally bumping into one as they tried to find any stray sheep that had fled the fields or when he ventured down to the village shop twice a week to get supplies for himself. 

They had welcomed him into the area when he had first taken up his post in the lighthouse and were quick to welcome him into the rural community that they were in. He had hoped that moving would be a quiet affair and it would bring him little attention. He had found loaves of fresh bread and a basket of fresh eggs on his doorstep the next morning. 

They were not the sort of people that he would have associated with when he was in London, he would have considered them to be far too  _ common  _ for his liking. He knew that they would have had similar sentiments about him. 

Other than his rare interactions with the rural community that he was welcomed in, Mycroft was on his own. He was never lonely, he had little idea why the women in the village insisted that he was or why they kept inviting him over for tea. It was just him and his books on most days, occasionally turning to his computer and notebook to pass the time. 

He believed that it was only with nature and his isolation from the rest of the world that he would be able to create something beautiful. It was after reading Walden that he had felt inspired to accept the post. He wondered if being in the Scottish highlands in order to look after a lighthouse would allow him to live deliberately and see the essential facts of life, and would perhaps learn what it meant to live. He hoped that he would be able to discover how sublime the world could be once more, he had only experienced the meanness of it over the years. 

  
  


It was probably not the most exciting existence that one would have willingly chosen for themselves. It was much more of a simple life than he used to have and he would have never have considered for himself originally but he found some glimmers of happiness for himself.

  
  


He started off his mornings by putting on a thick woollen jumper and his boots and walking across the vast beach and the countryside. He would venture among the woodland and the fields that were close if he felt like it and needed a change of scenery. Being surrounded by so much nature was still a novelty to him even after months of his new existence. He never tired of looking at the beaches, of seeing animals in the fields and the wildlife that was on the highlands, or seeing so many trees after years in London. 

His walks were meditative and allowed him to think about what he could write about. He hoped to somehow take nature, the life, that he saw in front of him and somehow capture it with his words and keep it with him for the rest of his life. It seemed like the only way that he would be able to keep the happiness he felt within him.

After his walk and once he had gotten himself ready for the day, Mycroft tended to the lighthouse and the surrounding area. He liked to think of himself as almost being the guardian on the island as he tended to the grounds. He cleared up any of the rubbish that had come from the sea. He polished the bulb of the lighthouse every morning without fail. He recorded the temperature of the sea and communicated the information about the weather on the radio. He did the basic checks on the machinery of the lighthouse and ensured that power to the Island was running efficiently. 

The coast guard visited him every month to do the maintenance work on the lighthouse and the machinery, ensuring that everything was going smoothly. The role of the lighthouse keeper had been made somewhat redundant, the paraffin lamps which were once used to guide the ships had been replaced with electricity in the mid-twentieth century and the role of keeper had been automated. His role was to maintain the lighthouse and the area around it, grunt work that he would have looked down upon but now it had become a lifeline for Mycroft. 

He spent the rest of his day with his books or by his desk that was next to the large windows that faced the rockpools. He often took several walks around the land or he would drive several miles to get to the shops and the very small village to get supplies, mainly writing paper, food, and the occasional slice of cake in the tea room, before he went back to the cottage. He rarely ventured further than Tain and to Inverness at the most, rarely wanting to leave the cocoon that he had made for himself. 

He cooked for himself almost every night and had become a great more self-sufficient than he ever imagined that he could be. It was a necessity to do so when he left his life in London. He spent his evenings listening to music, watching his favourite black and white films and tried to write before he went to bed. 

It was a routine that he had fallen into but it had given him comfort and provided a sense of permanence. He was never lonely, no matter how many times that the old women who kept inviting him for tea insisted he was. He did consider getting a cat to provide some companionship during the nights of late. He thought that there would be nothing better than to have a cup of tea, a good book, and a purring cat on his lap during the nights, he knew that it would be guaranteed happiness in this life. 

-

  
  


The new lighthouse keeper moving in was a cause of much talk in the small community. The moment that something happened, no matter how small and uneventful it was, it was always turned into a bigger affair than it was and people talked it about for days. 

They had a similar reaction to him when he had taken over the bakery from his Auntie Mavis three years ago. When he had taken over the bakery, he had quickly become a source of intrigue and interest among the customers once they realised that he was not local and he had come up from London. They were thankfully more interested in his baking and lost their interest in why he had moved up from London once the bakery had been opened up for several days. 

  
He had been quickly accepted into the community once they realised that he was almost as a good baker as Mavis had been. They were quick to tell him that she made better scones than him and gave him suggestions of what to bake and were happy to give him family recipes for black buns and shortbread that had been passed down for generations. 

  
He woke up at half four in the morning in the flat above the bakery to get the ovens switched on and to start making the bread and cakes. The shop was opened by seven in the morning and was in full flow by eight until two in the afternoon. Once he had cleaned up and closed the shop, he had the rest of the day to himself, usually driving up to the lighthouse and walking along the sand and the pebbled beaches. 

  
He occasionally brought loaves of bread to the lighthouse for the keeper. It was a small gesture but he hoped that it would be enough to make him feel welcomed into the community, he kept to himself for the most part and Greg had never met him. He always made more bread than he needed, always worried that he would run out during a morning or lunchtime rush and was happy to give some for the keeper, it saved him driving several miles to visit the bakery.

The wind seemed to take the air out of Greg’s lungs, a strong force that nearly pushed him to the ground with a strong force. He pulled his hood up and shoved his hands in his pockets and carried walking along the sand. The cold wind made his muscles ache, especially his leg. It always seemed to do it these days. It had been years and it still bothered him, he was just thankful that he didn’t need to use the walking stick anymore. 

He knew that he shouldn’t have gone for a walk that day and that he should have stayed home, perhaps only venturing to the pub that evening as the football was on. He would have had several pints and then he would go to bed. It was a simple life and far less interesting than the life he had previously. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t dull and that he wasn’t bored...it was just less exciting compared to his life in Scotland Yard. 

  
He felt the need for a walk greatly after the day that he had, it had been a surprisingly hectic morning and he had to close the shop early due to problems with the electricity. He had given away his extra cakes and bread to his favourite customers as the shop would be closed on Sunday, it was his only day off. 

He brought a loaf of fresh bread, several scones and a slice of Dundee cake with him on his walk to drop off at the door of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. The lighthouse keeper seemed to enjoy his baking, the bread and cakes were always eaten and he had left a note and some money in the empty basket that Greg had brought the bread in by the time that he had returned with a new loaf. 

He went to the lighthouse’s keeper's cottage and placed the basket on the doorstep. He knocked on the door and turned around. He knew that the keeper wouldn’t be there, he never opened up the door when Greg had dropped off baked goods.    
  


The women in the village said that he was a recluse but polite enough when he did speak to them. He never did accept their invitation to come around for cups of tea or for dinner on the rare occasion when they saw him. The main information about him came from the shopkeepers, they saw him regularly. They had made sure to tell him about how the lighthouse keeper wasn’t local and was from London, a ‘southern pansy,’ one of the old farmers had described him as when Greg had asked about him in the pub. 

The door opened much to Greg’s surprise, quickly turning around when he heard the squeak of the old wooden door being pulled open to reveal the keeper. He was a slim man, wearing a thick jumper and a bemused expression on his face as Greg looked at him, surprised that someone was on his door. 

  
He was not what Greg had expected and he did not match up with the image that had been built up of him from the gossip in the community. Greg had been expecting an old man with a beard to have answered the door and not the attractive man that he saw. 

  
He opened up his mouth to speak but seemed to forget how to do so. He nodded in the direction of the bread on the doorstep. 

“Thought that you might want some,” Greg said, once he finally managed to get the words out. “I’ve had far too much in the bakery, had to close early and I’m closed tomorrow. I’m sorry to bother you. You aren’t usually here.”

“I’m usually on my duties by now or I am out of the house for a walk,” he said, picking up the basket. “I do not usually get any visitors. I assume that you are the one who keeps leaving loaves of bread by the door.”

“Must get a touch lonely being on your own,” Greg said, shoving his hands in his pockets in the attempt to keep them warm and to protect them from the cold wind. “I’m Greg, I have the bakery.”

  
“Mycroft.” He raised an eyebrow as if he was taking every detail of him in like he was looking at a fine piece of art. “I was expecting to see a woman, Mavis runs the bakery?”

  
“Used to,” Greg replied. “She’s my auntie but I’ve been running it for three years. I’ve never seen you in my shop.”

  
“Is that an invitation?” Mycroft asked, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “I have never had the need to, you do bring the bread up here for me. It saves me trying to bake.”

“I could teach you some time...only if you are interested,” Greg cleared his throat and hoped that did not sound too keen. It had been years since he had last seen a man that had taken his fancy since he had taken over the bakery. He hardly had the time to do so and no one had grabbed his attention. He knew that it would be a source of gossip especially if he started seeing a bloke. He loved his customers and he was happy to feel a part of the community but didn’t want to bring any attention to himself and find out how tolerant his customers were. 

Mycroft’s mouth twitched upwards and he pushed open the cottage door, inviting him in. “Would you like to come in for some tea? It’s far too cold to be outside especially with these winds. I rarely get visitors other than the coast guard and we can have some cake. ”

  
Greg nodded and gratefully accepted the invitation without a second thought. 


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft quickly took his coat and invited him to sit on the plush chair by the fireplace while he pattered around in the small kitchen. The fire crackled loudly to itself and Greg bathed in its warmth that sunk right down to his bones, instantly feeling at ease in the small cottage. 

It was a small cottage but it only took Greg a few moments to feel at home. He could hear the sea and smell the almost salty air of the sea, free from pollution and the grey that was in London. It was the air that sea breeze that made Greg quickly lose any desire to move back to London, he couldn’t stand how grey the city and believed that it had an impact on his mood. 

The cottage was small and cosy despite the few personal touches that were in the flat. He noticed a few family photos, Mycroft dressed in a suit, university graduation, usually standing to a moody looking younger brother in the majority of the photographs. The shelves were filled to the brim with books and there was a pile of them on the table that faced a large window. There was a typewriter on the table and a few seashells decorating the windowsill. A large patchwork quilt was placed on the desk chair as if Mycroft would wrap himself up in it during as he wrote. 

“Do you take sugar?” Mycroft asked, poking his head from the kitchen door. 

Greg lifted his head from the pile of books that he was examining and swore quietly, trying to catch an ornament that he had knocked off the shelf. With crumbly hands, he managed to stop the expensive-looking model of Neptune from falling onto the ground and shattering. He quickly put his hands in his pockets, pretending to look rather interested in looking out of the window. 

“Two please,” he said. “A good splash of milk as well, thank you.” 

Mycroft hummed himself and quickly turned his head back into the kitchen, distracted by the high pitched squeal of the kettle. “There is a footstool if you are needing it, your leg seems to be bothering you.”

Greg instantly stood up straighter and pretended that his leg had not been bothering him, it hardly did but it seemed to get rather stiff at times. “Lovely cottage, “ he said. “You’ve seemed to have turned it into a home already.”

Mycroft walked through with a tea tray with two mugs that were filled with hot tea and the scones that Greg had brought with him. There was a pot of jam that was preciously balanced on the top of the tray and the tea threatened to spill from the mugs but there was not a splash on the tray. 

“I think that it is almost a home,” Mycroft said as he placed on the tray on the table. “I think that there is something that is missing.”

Greg gratefully accepted the mug that was handed to him, the warmth of the tea settled in his stomach and gave him the feeling of having a tight hug around his middle. He usually drank coffee but it never gave him the same feeling, 

“What do you think it is?” he asked. 

  
Mycroft picked up his mismatched floral mug and sipped at his tea carefully. “I am not sure,” he answered honestly. “I do hope to be able to place my finger on it eventually.”

  
“You are not around from here,” Greg stated, not quite sure what to say to him. “I can tell from your accent. What brings you up here? Where were you before?” 

“London,” Mycroft offered, almost hesitantly. “I needed a change of scenery.” 

Greg nodded and reached over to take a scone. “It’s a different way of life up here, “ he said. “Much better than London. It does take some time to get used to it but you hardly think of London or even miss it after a while. What inspired you to look after a lighthouse?” 

“I am sorry about the lack of jam,” he said, offering the jar to Greg. “I normally have a lot more but I did use up the last of the raspberry the other day and I have not been into town.”

“Bramble is fine,” Greg said, helping himself to the jar that was offered, trying not to get crumbs on the sofa. 

“What brings you up here?” Mycroft asked before Greg could open his mouth before Greg could ask him another question. 

  
“To take over the bakery,” Greg answered simply with a shrug. “I don’t know if there is more to it.”

“There must be,” Mycroft hummed. “A man such as yourself would thrive in London.”

He looked at Greg as if he was examining a painting or if he was looking at something beautiful, his eyes were piercing and looked as if they could see right through him. No one had ever looked at Greg like that before like he was something important or anything special. He had never thought of himself as anything more than ordinary. 

“What are you thinking about?” Greg asked. “You are in a deep thought, I can tell.” 

“I am trying to figure out what brings you up in the middle of nowhere,” Mycroft said, amused. “I do find it much better if I find out organically instead of doing deductions. There is something familiar about you.”

Greg let out an amused noise and was instantly brought back to memories of his days in the Yard. Of crime scenes and yellow tape; of Sherlock Holmes running around them in that big cloak-like coat of his as if he owned the whole of London. The nostalgia was bitter-sweet and he suddenly found himself missing Sherlock and his old life. 

“I’m nothing special,” he said. “ I was just a copper for Scotland Yard.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I may be so bold,” he said, “I would say that there was something special about you Greg. I can tell.” 

“What is it?” Greg said. “You must know.”

Mycroft shook his head and nibbled at his scone delicately. “You should find out yourself, let it happen organically. Time will allow you to find it, it will do the same for myself and I will be able to find out what is missing.”

“I can help you find it,” Greg said, trying not to sound too eager. “It will just be rather nice to be with someone who is a bit of an outsider, another Londoner.”

  
The two of them fell into an easy conversation with another. It flowed as smoothly as the waves rolled in the sea. Greg ended up leading the conversation, nervously chattering away while Mycroft was eager to listen to him with great enthusiasm. They seemed to talk about everything and nothing, Greg deliberately avoiding the questions of why Mycroft had come to look after a lighthouse and why he had left his life in London, Mycroft followed suit. 

“You do have a talent for baking,” Mycroft said, helping him into his coat. 

  
Greg scoffed and shook his head. “You are only saying that as I’ve been bringing bread up to you,” he said. “Saves you having to drive into town. I do like the flattery though, I might have to continue doing it.”

Mycroft fiddled with the sleeve of his thick woollen jumper which complimented his eyes. “I suppose that I could end up popping in and giving you a visit,” he said. “Only if you wouldn’t mind.”

Greg quickly shook his head. “You should,” he said, much more eagerly than he should have done. “It’s a good bakery.”

  
“I would say that it was more than just ‘good,’” Mycroft said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “I would be delighted to visit you. I’ll happily accept your invitation.”

“I can give you the extra cakes,” Greg said. “I always end up making too much.”

“That is very tempting,” Mycroft said, biting his bottom lip. “It does give me more reason to visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologise for it to be a short chapter, I've been struggling a bit to write recently due to mental health and just how grey it is this time of year but I'm hoping that it was an okayish chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg never needed an alarm to get up for half-four in the morning these days. He only needed it for the first few days that he moved into his flat above the bakery before his body adjusted and he woke up like clock-work.

He pulled the duvet over his head when he heard Crumble start doing her impression of an orphan from a Dicken’s novel for food the moment that she heard him stir in bed, within two minutes she would be pawing at his face and meowing in his ear to get him out of bed. She did the same one minute past her feeding time in the afternoon, acting like she had been starved for a week.

“Hardly need to have an alarm clock when I’ve got you around,” Greg grumbled as he reluctantly pulled the duvet down. “I don’t even know why I keep you around, you never let me sleep in.”

He swore that Crumble seemed to smirk at him and wiggled her tail definitely at him as she left the room and went into the kitchen. He could hear her demanding meows from the kitchen and the noise of her metal food bowl being moved around on the floor, that had been her new trick, used when she thought that he was taking too long to get out of bed. 

  
“Bloody cat,” he grumbled as he reluctantly pulled the duvet off himself and forced himself out of bed. His body, especially his leg painfully stiff that morning due to the cold or it was old age catching upon him. He must have slept wrong and twisted himself into a funny position in order to make room for the cat, she did have the habit of taking up most of the space in the bed. 

He switched on the kettle and fed Crumble, who begged for food with an outstretched paw, tapping at his arm for attention. He rolled his eyes at her and scratched behind her ears, getting a purr and her bumping her head against his arm in return. 

He had inherited Crumble with the bakery three years ago. He had never cared much for cats before but he had grown awfully fond of her to the point where she had become awfully spoiled because of him. He always complained about her to his customers as they shared stories about what their cats had been up to but she had been a good bit of company and a friend to him since he moved up. 

He drank his coffee and had his breakfast with Crumble on the sofa watching the telly before he went into the bakery and switched on the ovens. Crumble followed him downstairs and sat by her spot by the windowsill in the front of the shop, staring out in the street. She hardly noticed the customers who came into the shop or paid attention to the ones who stayed for tea, only becoming animated when she heard seagulls squawking. 

He made a list of what was needed to get made that morning, deciding to make some tablet that morning as he craved something sweet for himself. He put on the radio and hummed along to The Clash and other songs that he played constantly in his teenage years and twenties, it felt like such an age ago and he couldn’t understand when the cobwebs in his soul had been weaved without him knowing it. 

He watched the sunlight slowly come up as he weighed up ingredients for the scones, a gentle glow that turned into a much-needed burst of light. He didn’t mind the early mornings and rather liked the solitude of them at times. It was just him and his bakery for several hours in the morning while the rest of the community was still asleep. He didn’t see anyone in the streets until just past six in the morning, usually, the farmers getting their messages and their papers before they went back to work or people waiting to get into the bakery. 

His problems hardly seemed to matter in the early hours. He didn’t know if it was because he was too early to think about them and he seemed to run on autopilot as he baked in the morning. He found baking to be almost meditative and it had helped a lot, allowing him to get out of that dark place after retiring early and being forced to leave his old life behind. 

The baking and his move up to Scotland allowed him to find beauty in the world that he never thought that he would be able to see it again. As much as he loved his job and knowing that he did some good in the world, he resented how the job had allowed him to see the cruelty in the world and know that it could exist, removing the remaining traces of youthful innocence that he had somehow managed to cling to over the years. 

  
He knew that he would never be able to see the world in all of its colour and beauty again, but he had started to see less grey and more shades of colour since he had moved up. It was not his old life and he did miss it constantly, but he had a happy existence with the bakery. He wondered that one day he would be able to call it home. 

-

Mycroft hesitated by the computer, writing and then deleting the email that he wanted to write to his brother. He tried to write again, not entirely sure what he wanted to write about. He doubted that Sherlock would reply to his email or even open it. 

  
He would have phoned if the reception was not patchy and often poor. It was part of the reason why he wanted to take the post, he would not get bothered by phone calls from government officials and the Prime Minister even if he was technically retired. After spending decades being bothered by them and having to deal with urgent phone calls, being practically glued to his phone with little time off, it was a relief to be in a location with bad phone signal. 

They did try to contact him through email as well and he did answer them if they were urgent, even though he was retired he had a consulting role. He did need something to keep his mind sharp and he did miss the puzzle-solving of his old job. 

He made himself a pot of tea and stared at the blank email that he was writing to write before he sighed and started to write about what he had been up to this week. He asked Sherlock questions about the case that made it on the headline of the papers, locked-room murder of a television personality who had been beheaded, his brother would have been involved in that, of course.  


  
He quickly composed the email and hesitated before he pressed send. He wondered if he should keep the last question that he had written to Sherlock: 

_ Do you happen to know of anyone called Greg Lestrade who worked in Scotland Yard as an officer?  _

He sighed and deleted the sentence. It felt too much like intruding into Greg’s personal life and privacy. It never used to bother him before in his old life but he felt odd even looking at the old newspapers online about the bakery and Greg’s arrival. He did spend hours reading the monthly food section that Greg wrote, a page or two of recipes, both baked goods and savoury cooking and food recommendations, his thoughts on restaurants or shops in the mainland or the Victoria sponge that Mrs Cruickshank from the village made. 

  
  


He wanted to know someone organically for once. He rarely did it in his old life in London and it had a led to loneliness. He could never find that spark with someone or even know if there was anything between them if he had already found everything out about them through his deductions and from what he could find on his databases about them. There was hardly any romance in reading a file about someone. 

  
  


He had quickly found himself smitten by Greg after they had shared tea and scones together. He thought that it was a result of not having an interesting conversation with anyone, not having anything more than just small talk about the weather, since he had arrived. He was a very attractive man, warmth seemed to radiate out of him and through his dark brown eyes. His smile did strange things to Mycroft’s stomach and he had found himself wanting to spend more time with him. 

The books and love stories that Mycroft had read over the years suddenly made sense. He had never believed that there was a spark between two people or he had assumed that there was a faulty wire in him that prevented him from feeling it. But after that cup of tea, Mycroft felt a jolt inside him and he wanted to experience it again. 

He forced himself to wait several days before he would see him again. He did not want to come off as being too strong or too keen. He hardly knew the protocol for these occasions, hardly having the time to allow himself to develop feelings for someone or experience them. He had always been too occupied to do so, his personal life and his work life were incompatible with even the notion of having a relationship. 

  
He had tried to do so in the past and it never seemed to last. His job kept him away for all hours and took him out of the country at a moments notice, there was always a threat of his personal life getting involved and mixed in with the danger of his job. He could never have anything with Sherlock, his last long term partner could never understand why Sherlock came first, Mycroft never told him about his brother’s addictions, partly out of embarrassment and the belief that it was a problem that he could deal with on his own. Simon could never understand why he often had to run out of bed in the middle of the night with just one text message from his brother or that Sherlock would always come first. 

He looked over the email and sent it away, he doubted that Sherlock would even want to read it. He finished off his cup of tea and pulled on his coat, preparing himself to go to the town to get his shopping. He had put it off for a few days and the cupboards were looking rather pathetic. He needed more eggs, bacon; a few jars and tins, perhaps the newspapers and he would have to go to the library. He had finished off the bread as well…

He would have to go to the bakery to see Greg. It would be the most socially acceptable way to see him. Mycroft congratulated himself for his wonderful realisation as he picked up his shopping bags and went to the car. 

There was a line outside the bakery. There was always one each time that he went into town, it had always put him off from visiting in the first place. He had little desire to wait and often wanted to be back into his cocoon in the cottage with his books and a mug of tea instead of mingling with other people in line and often went to the small corner shop for bread.

He had been foolish to do so and vowed to only ever get bread from the bakery as long as Greg was there, solemn as a knight taking a quest from a king. With great reluctance, he forced himself to go around the other shops, making sure to more notebooks and pens for himself for his writing. He easily spent an hour in the library and the bookshop, getting enough books to last him for at least a week until he needed to go back into town. 

The line for the bakery was gone once he had been to the library and the book shop. The barkery was near enough empty and he could see Greg in a flour-covered apron, bagging up loaves of bread for the customers and happily chatting away. A tabby cat sleeping by the window caught Mycroft’s attention and he found himself at it, he always had a fondness for cats. 

  
He looked up from the cat and realised that Greg was looking at him, smiling actually. He could feel a twist in his heart, it seemed to flutter when he saw him. He took in a deep breath and walked into the bakery with a smile on his face, Greg welcoming him in the bakery. 

  
-

Mycroft carefully inspected the selection of bread that was in wicker baskets and the cakes and biscuits that were behind the glass, not sure what he wanted to get. Everything looked far too tempting and it felt impossible to only pick a few things. He knew that he shouldn’t have gotten anything, he knew that he should not let the diet slip even if Greg was a fantastic baker. 

“What do you recommend?” Mycroft asked, moving his eyes away from the cakes that he was looking at. “It is impossible just to choose one thing. Everything does look delicious.”

Greg chuckled and tried to brush off the flour that was on his apron. There was a smear of it on his cheek and it took Mycroft all of his strength to not reach over and brush it off. “I must make life easier for you when I bring you bread, means that you don’t have to choose anything.”

“I thought that I would have to visit,” Mycroft said. “It seems only fair to do so. I have never seen a bakery this busy, not even when I was in London. I think that your bakery is the busiest shop in the town.”

Greg’s cheeks turned a sugar-coated pink. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said, rather shyly. “Everyone just wants a loaf of bread really, there’s nothing like homemade bread. I’ve made sourdough and that always sells well.”

  
He excused himself and went into the back of the shop and brought out a loaf of bread which was sliced up and already in a brown paper bag. He cleared his throat and had a sheepish expression on his face. “There is a spare loaf if you want,” He said. “It sells really well and I didn’t want you to miss out... I was going to drop it off for you.”

  
“Is this your way of inviting yourself around for another cup of tea?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow, knowing full too well that Greg would be more than welcome to visit him anytime. “I did think that it would be polite to visit you. It would save you having to drive all the time.”

“I really don’t mind the drive,” Greg said quickly. “I like to walk around the beaches. It is very peaceful, you don’t get anything like that in London.”

“You should join me if you are interested,” Mycroft said in an uncharacteristic moment of boldness. “It would be nice to have the company.”

Greg nodded enthusiastically with a beaming grin on his face that could rival any lighthouse light. “I would love...that would be nice. It would be nice to have a bit of company.”

Mycroft’s attention went to the cat that had wrapped itself around his ankles and purring loudly. He bent down and carefully let the car rub her face and her body along with his fingers, bumping her head against his hand. 

  
“Who is this?” Mycroft asked, a smile on her face. “I never knew that you had a cat.”

  
“Crumble,” Greg said, removing his apron and picking up the purring cat. “She came along to the shop and has been a pain in my life ever since,” he said fondly. 

“I’ve always had a fondness for them,” Mycroft admitted. “I have considered getting one before. I think that there is nothing better than a purring cat on your lap next to a fireplace.”

“A cat would keep you company,” Greg said. “That could be missing in your life. A cat could be the thing to help you make your cottage feel like a home.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully and reached over to scratch Crumble’s ears. “I think that a cat could possibly help,” he said. 

“A friend perhaps?” Greg suggested, biting his bottom lip slightly. “That’s what I could do with-- we should probably stick together, we aren’t local and it makes sense to do so.”

“That sounds like a sensible idea,” Mycroft agreed. “I could be here all day before I pick some of those cakes, especially with your cat in the shop. Now, what would you recommend ?”

  
  


Mycroft left the bakery after an hour with a bag full of cakes and bread that Greg refused to let him pay for, not matter how much he insisted on paying for. He left a large tip in the jar and left with an invitation from Greg to go to the village cèilidh with him. Greg had told him that it made sense for them to go together, they were both outsiders and it would be more fun than spending a Saturday night alone in a lighthouse. 

A cèilidh felt a bit too social for Mycroft’s liking. It was not something that he had ever considered attending before, certainly not in his old life and not in his new existence until recently. He found himself more willing to attend with Greg’s invitation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and Kudos, they really help me write! If I had to name his chapter I'd call it 'Greg is controlled by a cat.'


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft fiddled with his jumper, flattened his hair and carefully inspected his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was his fourth outfit that he had tried on and he had not found anything that was up to his standards or which would impress Greg. 

  
He had never been to a cèilidh before and he certainly did not have an outfit for one. He doubted that he would have had one in his old life, he did use to love dressing up in a suit no matter the occasion. It was a far cry from the outfits that he wore these days, thick woollen jumpers and walking boots, occasionally wellington boots depending on the weather and unsightly looking raincoats. His outfits looked rather unsightly, the jumpers were rather questionable at times especially the ones that his mother had knitted for him, but they were warm and practical. 

He removed his jumper and removed the imaginary wrinkles out of the shirt that he was wearing underneath. He rummaged around in the wardrobe and pulled out a blazer that he wore when his brother occasionally visited him. It was one of the few possessions that he kept from his life in London, he kept it out of sentimental value along with a suit, several ties and the more subtle pieces of Uncle Rudy’s earrings that he had turned into cufflinks, along with a few other bits and pieces that he could not part with. 

He patted his hair into place and hoped that he would be suitably dressed, not that he was wanting to impress Greg or anything. Greg told him that it would be a rather low key affair, that the community held one every few months in the village hall. He had told him that there would be some singing, music being played and that there would be some dancing. 

Mycroft had little desire to go to a cèilidh, it felt far too social for Mycroft’s liking. He did not imagine that he would have much to talk about with the old farmers, he struggled to pick up their accent and the dialect at times. He doubted that they would be that interested in talking to him either or they would be far too interesting, wondering why someone who came from the city ended up in a small rural community. He was still a source of novelty and curiosity for them even if he had been a member of the community for several months. 

He did not care much for dancing, he never had. If he did care for dancing, he wouldn’t be able to dance with anyone that he cared for, he knew that these small rural communities would raise eyebrows and would certainly make comment about who he wanted to dance with. 

Greg had given him directions to the village hall, suggesting that he arrive early to help him sort out the food table. He had been baking shortbread throughout the week, bringing shortbread with his bread delivery to the cottage. It was the most wonderful shortbread that Mycroft had ever had, buttery with the right amount of sweetness and melted in the mouth. The Highlander shortbread was even more spectacular, it was almost caramelly. 

He had eaten several pieces of shortbread with his pot of tea as he sat by the window and wrote. The sweetness seemed to inspire a story with him, a silly scribbling about a baker. He doubted that it would go anywhere but he enjoyed writing it. It had been the most that he had been able to write in several weeks and he had managed to write several pages before he went into the town to visit the bakery, deciding to get more shortbread. 

Mycroft put on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck and made his way to the car. He drove to the village hall and tried to ignore the bundle of nerves that suddenly appeared in his stomach and knotted horribly when he saw Greg waiting outside the village hall with boxes of shortbread in his hands. 

  
He looked up at Mycroft and smiled, waving enthusiastically as he could. The nerves in Mycroft’s stomach tightened horribly and he felt an odd sensation in his chest but he smiled at Greg. It was impossible not to. 

He hesitated for a moment in the car before he got out, walking towards Greg and helping him with the boxes of shortbread. He knew that cèilidhs were not for him but he was definitely more willing to attend when there was shortbread involved and Greg, of course. 

  
  


* * *

He quickly put Mycroft to work once they were in the village hall putting out shortbread on slates and decorating the table. He knew that it would be the best way to help Mycroft integrate into the community, putting him at the table where the shortbread and the cakes were laid out. He knew that from experience that no one was interested in who he was or his past when there were cakes on the table. 

He knew that Mycroft would have never gone down to the village hall without his invitation. It was only recently that he had started to go into the town more regularly. Greg knew that it would only be a matter of time until he would become a part of the community, putting him in charge of the shortbread table would help him quickly be accepted into the community. 

  
He believed that it was the best thing to do. He did wonder if Mycroft often felt lonely. He often did when he had first moved up. He believed that he would be if he didn’t have the bakery and the regulars that he spoke to every day. 

He hoped that Mycroft would be a friend. He hoped that he would be a good one, he was an outsider as well and it made perfect sense for them to stick together. It seemed like fate that two people from London were brought together in a rural Scottish community. It was the only way to explain it. 

He watched Mycroft carefully place the shortbread on the slates, making sure that the pieces were lined up straight and arranged perfectly. He watched him place the broken pieces to the side.

“You can keep those bits if you’d like,” Greg commented, nodding at the collection of shortbread that Mycroft had placed into a tub. “You have a bit of a sweet tooth, I can tell. You can take a few unbroken bits as well.”

Mycroft had a sheepish expression on his face. “It is just the most wonderful shortbread that I have ever tasted, “ he tried to explain. “I am not sure what you to make it so delicious. The finest restaurants that I’ve been to cannot make shortbread-like you.”

Greg felt his ears turn pink and felt his cheeks go warm. He had been complimented on his baking many times but a compliment from Mycroft seemed to hit him rather differently. “It’s hardly anything,” he said. “It’s probably all the sugar that I put in it.”

Mycroft shook his head and nibbled on a broken piece of shortbread. “It must be more than that,” he said. “I think that you are simply a wonderful baker. Have you had any formal training?”

Greg grimaced as he saw the colour in his cheeks in the reflection of the metal tray that he placed cakes on. He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “I’ve always been interested in it, my auntie taught me. I used to spend my summers up here, mum and dad were working and couldn’t look after me. Just figured that I would take up a few classes when I retired and the rest is history.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Mycroft asked. “London? Being in the police? It is a bit of a change from London and from what you did before.”

Greg thought carefully but did not say anything for several moments. He missed London so much on occasion that it ached. He had thought that a clean break from the city after all what had happened would make it easier. It would be easier to start a new life if he was in the middle of nowhere, much easier to go cold turkey on it. 

“Nah,” he fibbed. “Barely have the time to think about London these days. Far as I’m convinced, the life in London is just a chapter to what happened to me. I’m happy here,” he said, feeling that he was trying to convince himself than Mycroft.

“What brought you up here?” Greg asked, helping himself to a cup of tea from the table that was next to his one, handing Mycroft a teacup. “I can’t imagine a bloke like yourself being away from the city.”

“I needed a change,” Mycroft said briskly. “The lighthouse needed someone to look after it and I was willing to do so.” 

  
“What were you before in your old life?” Greg asked. “Must have been something interesting. Business? Something in politics? I can tell.”

“A civil servant,” Mycroft replied. “A minor position in the government, hardly anything exciting.”

He had the feeling that Mycroft had more than just a ‘minor position,’ in whatever he did before. There was a certain air about him and it did not belong in the Highlands. He could easily imagine him behind a desk and in a suit and not in the woollen jumpers that he had seen in him. He wondered if Mycroft would ever be able to fit in, even the air around him and the way that he held himself quickly made anyone know that he was an outsider before he opened up his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter now I guess,” Greg said, deciding to leave the subject. “We are both up here, not in London. It is a beautiful place to be. What else do you do than look after a lighthouse then?”

“I write,” Mycroft replied, seeming relieved at the change of subject. “I attempt to anyway. I never had the time in London and it was far too loud. Being surrounded by nature is inspiring enough.” 

  
“You mean being away from everyone else?” Greg asked with a light chuckle. “

  
“That does help,” Mycroft agreed. “I get time to think and it is the most wonderful thing about being up here. I hardly had a moment to myself before.”

“I know the feeling too well,” Greg said, nodded in agreement. 

It was what he missed about London. The city was so constantly busy and there was so much going on at one time. There was always someone who was needing him and Sherlock kept him busy, he barely had time to be with his own thoughts. It was one of the things that he disliked the most being up here, the quiet and how he had time to think about what happened. The divorce and the last case he was on before he had to retire. It was impossible to avoid his own thoughts up here no matter how much he tried. 

He and Mycroft fell into comfortable conversation as they watched the community slowly fill up the village hall. They were quick to great him and the old women were quietly whispering to another about Mycroft, wondering who he was, excitedly talking among another as one mentioned that he was the lighthouse keeper. 

Mycroft winced at the attention and kept himself busy with the shortbread and washing up the cups in the small kitchen, almost as if he was not sure if he was wanting to be a part of the community or not with how much attention he seemed to bring. 

He came through later on when the attention of everyone seemed to be on group of primary school children playing instruments; fiddles, tin whistles and a child was playing the bagpipes. They were rather good even if they did play the wrong notes on occasion or the timing was wrong at spots. There was a few songs and poem that were in Gaelic, the children learning the language at school, Greg could pick up a word here and there from his three years in the community. 

The dancing started and Mycroft seemed content to watch instead of joining in, happy to sit at the sidelines with him. They had been invited several times but Greg quietly declined each time, he had never been much of a dancer before and he doubted that he would be able to do so again, not with his leg. 

  
“Are you not going to dance?” Greg asked loudly in the attempt to be heard over the music. “The Gay Gordons isn’t that difficult to learn and I think that you would be fine. Strip the Willow is rather easy even if it does make you awfully dizzy. It’s not much harder than country dancing.”

  
Mycroft looked right at him and Greg swallowed hard when he realised that he could count the freckles on his nose and that his eyes were strikingly beautiful. “There is no one that I am interested in dancing with. I would rather much be with you.”

Greg let out a breath and ran his hand through his hair, wishing that he would be able to dance. “You don’t have to,” he murmured. “I do want you to have a good time.”

“I am,” Mycroft replied simply. “You can go and have a dance if you want. There is a lot of… ladies who have invited you. You do not have to decline the invitations because of me.”

Greg shook his head and stood up from where he was sat, deciding that it would be sensible to tend to the refreshments and the shortbread. The table was near enough empty anyway and the dancers would be wanting more of the shortbread. “I am not much of a dancer,” he said. “My leg gets in the way of it.”

  
“What is wrong with it?” Mycroft asked. “Only if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Two-left feet,” Greg replied briskly with a half-hearted chuckle. 

Mycroft nodded and started to help him place more shortbread on the slates. He started to praise the wonders of his baking again as if it could make up for his curiosity. “I was wondering if I could take some more,” he said. “My brother is coming up form London next weekend.” 

“Of course,” Greg nodded. “ I would be happy to make some for you. I’ve got a friend who is coming up as well. Old friend, one that I used to work with. You’ll like him, completely brilliant but bonkers at the same time. He's madder than a box of frogs at times but utterly brilliant. He’s a consulting detective, only one in the world. I never heard of the job until him- ”

Mycroft paused what he was doing, dropping the shortbread onto the slate, cutting Greg off from his sentence. There was a surprised expression on his face that seemed to come out of nowhere and he seemed rather startled, so unlike himself.   


  
“What’s wrong?” Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head and cleared his throat before he spoke, removing the confused expression on his face. He seemed to debate with himself before he spoke, almost unsure if he should say something or not. He licked his lips and swallowed before he spoke. “This is going to be a strange question.”

“What is it?” Greg asked. 

"Do you happen to know Sherlock Holmes?"


	5. Chapter 5

It was obvious that Sherlock Holmes was an outsider to the community from just a single glance. He had already gathered some attention as he stepped off the train that came from Inverness from the few commuters who were scattered on the platforms, who gave him a second glance as he strode off the train with his black cloak-like coat billowing behind him, being caught in the strong winds. 

Each time that he visited, Sherlock seemed to gather some sort of attention, positive and negative. He was usually a source of gossip among the community for the few days that he visited. They found him strange that he never seemed that interested in them unlike the tourists unless it was about matters about when the last murder or the last major crime was in the community or around the surrounding areas. 

  
He had been turned into a story, almost a mythlike being over the years. Bits and pieces had been added to the patchwork of a story about the outsider from London in the black coat. Greg had added a few arms and legs to the story for his own entertainment when the children asked about Sherlock. They soon told their parents and the community and it had taken any lingering attention off him and helped integrate him into the community, he was considerably less interesting compared to Sherlock. 

His customers referred to him as a vampire with how pale and how he was only seen walking around the streets and the fields at night, his coat looking cape-like in the dark. ‘A well-dressed and handsome vampire,’ Mrs Oilphant had told him as she got her white loaf during Sherlock’s last visit after Greg told her that he was still in bed at ten in the morning. 

  
  


He had a large suitcase with him even if he was meant to be staying for the night before he took the train to Inverness the next afternoon. He claimed that he was wanting to collect samples of seaweed, sand and of anything that he found interesting for an experiment that he was working on. He had the habit of taking about twenty packets of shortbread with him back to London each time he visited to keep him going until the next visit. He brought a bigger bag with him each time he visited and took more biscuits back to the mainland each time. 

Sherlock barely spoke to him other than a curt greeting as Greg picked him up from the train station. He was in quiet contemplation during the five-minute walk from the train station to the bakery, giving out a smirk when a child screamed to his friend that the vampire was back.

  
“You should really come and visit at Halloween,” Greg said, opening up the door to the flat above the bakery. “The children would really love it and it will give everyone something to talk about, more than you do normally. ”

Sherlock shook his head and made his way up the stairs. He took off his coat and made himself comfortable on Greg’s armchair. Crumble barely let him sit down before she decided to climb up on his lap and rubbed her head against his hand, begging for attention. Much to Greg’s surprise, Sherlock did not push her down and started to stroke her light brown fur, managing to get her to purr loudly even if her did drool and cover his lap with hair. Sherlock did not seem to bother too much about it and was more occupied with the plate of shortbread that Greg had offered to him. 

“Do you still take it the same?” Greg asked, popping his head out from the kitchen. “Tea, a splash of milk and two and a half sugars?”

He knew the answer, Sherlock had always taken his tea the same ever since he met him. There was so much that he wanted to ask him, mostly questions about why he decided to visit but mostly questions about Mycroft. 

Sherlock had mentioned that he had a brother in the past. He had only ever referred to him negatively and with insulting and childish comments. His comment had built up an annoying and pretentious, ginger and mammoth of a man, whose sole purpose in life was to annoy Sherlock and to get in the way of his plans. 

His description of Mycroft was completely inaccurate and he couldn’t understand how the two were related. The two looked like strangers and the only resemblance between them was the piecing eyes they had and how they both seemed to look at people as if they were works of art, determined to get every single detail from them, no matter how insignificant they were. 

The air of being an outsider was evident and surrounded them like a thick smog. Sherlock seemed to revel in it and liked the attention he got during his visits. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes the detective when he visited, no one seemed to know about his detective work and no one had read John’s blog and were just more focused on what happened locally or in the mainland. Mycroft seemed to be happy to keep to himself, only recently he started to venture into the town more often but was still keen to be an outsider or he at least seemed to be. 

“How are things in London?” Greg asked, walking into the living room with two mugs. He walked carefully, trying not to spill the tea on the floor, his leg seemed painfully stiff with Sherlock’s presence. “You’ve been busy, I’ve seen the papers. Pretty big cases you’ve been doing it.”

  
“Dimmock is an idiot and Hopkins is only marginally better,” Sherlock grumbled between sips of his tea. “Things have slipped since you’ve left. You were slightly better than most of the idiots in Scotland Yard.”

“What did I do to get such a compliment?” Greg said dryly. “You can just ask for shortbread, you don’t have to give me a compliment. I know how much it pains you.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment but did not say anything. He steepled his fingers under his chin, the silence in the room was broken by Crumble’s loud purrs. Greg knew what he was about to say, it was the same conversation that happened each time Sherlock came up to visit. 

Greg sighed and spoke before Sherlock could utter out a word. “You know what I am going to say. We talk about this each time you come up and when you email, the answer is always going to be the same, Sherlock.”

“You are wasted here,” Sherlock replied. “You hate it is here and you should be in London. London is where you belong, not in a stupid bakery in the middle of nowhere.”

“I am starting to think that you miss me,” Greg said, brushing off Sherlock’s comments. “If you miss me that much, you can visit more often than just once a year. You’ve got your brother here, gives you an excuse to visit more.”

“You know my brother?” Sherlock asked, surprised. 

Greg folded his arms across his chest and shrugged. “It’s a small community,” he said. “It’s impossible not to know everyone who is here. You should know that the moment that there is someone coming or going, people are going to talk about it.”

Sherlock shook his head, brustling up and spilt a drop of tea from his mug on the floor. “I never expected Mycroft to be involved in the community. I thought that he would just stay by the lighthouse and avoid people. I always thought that becoming a hermit in a lighthouse suited him, being in a small community is far too social for him.”

“What is he doing up here?” Greg asked. “I can’t imagine that you would be happy settling up here and you wouldn’t do it on your own free will, your brother must be the same. Does he get bored like what you do?” 

“Being alone suits him better,” Sherlock replied simply. “As much as I detest him, that information is my brother’s decision to give people. He would do the same for me. Have you told him why you are up here?”

“I told him that I needed a change,” Greg replied briskly, rubbing at his leg. “There isn’t much to tell. He knows that I was in the police and that I retired, what else does he need to know? I’m happy here.” 

Sherlock looked at him unconvinced by what he said. “It would be easy enough for you to get your job back. I can get my brother to pull a few strings and get you unretired, the paperwork will be done and you’ll be at your old office by the end of the week.”

Greg shook his head and pushed down his bittersweet memories of London. It was difficult leaving the city and visiting would be far too painful and difficult for him, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to leave once more. It was just easier to stay with the bakery, he lived there now. He didn’t quite think of it as home but it would be close enough, one day he would grow to love it as much as London. He had a life up here, it wasn't one that he had ever planned for himself but he would grow to suit it over time.  


“I really can’t do that,” he said gruffly, forcing the words out. “I appreciate the offer and I would love to come back… I can’t.” 

“Why not?” Sherlock asked definitely. “You’ve never given me a reason why you can’t go back to London.” 

  
“I’m retired now. That’s a big reason why.” 

Sherlock let out a huff and sounded like he was deflating. “A proper reason.” 

  
“There is nothing in London for me now,” Greg answered quickly. “I don’t want to have a conversation. We have it all the time.”

  
Sherlock looked at him, a vicious expression on his face almost shark-like. “Your leg shouldn’t be a reason why you can’t come back,” he said. “John’s shoulder doesn’t stop him from running around London. You can come back and do the job from your desk, it’s not that difficult. The accident was years ago, Lestrade...Can you even look at it?”

Greg swallowed hard and pretended that Sherlock’s comment didn’t affect him in the slightest. “Look at what?” he asked, pretending to not know what he was talking about. 

“Your leg?” Sherlock asked knowingly. “It’s good that ditched the walking stick, it made you look older than you were. It bothers you, no one knows about it other than the two of us. What do you tell people? The community must have questions, an outsider from London who used to be a police officer. They certainly would talk.”

Greg stood up stiffly and walked away from the room, excusing himself to wash the dishes that were in the sink. Sherlock followed him and stood behind him as he washed his glasses from the evening before. 

  
“You know that when someone leaves the room it means that they don’t want to talk to you,” Greg said rather emotionlessly. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, seeming to be rather fascinated by the collection of tea towels that were hung on the oven door. 

“I am not angry with you,” Greg said simply. “I don’t blame you for what happened or the accident. It was just me saving your arse as always. I didn’t get away from London to avoid you.”

“Then why did you?” Sherlock asked quietly. “Is there a chance of you coming back?”

“I don’t know,” Greg uttered. “I can’t at the moment. I can visit you one day, not sure when. ”

  
“You aren’t ever going to come back are you?” Sherlock huffed impatiently, a tone of disbelief. “Are you actually happy here?” 

Greg shook his head, trying to believe the lie he told. He gripped the glass in his hand tightly, almost fearing that it would shatter in his palm and thought what a relief it would be. 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was fascinated with the lighthouse and insisted that he go to the top after barely greeting him. He quickly made his way up the spiral staircase, his coat flapping behind him as he ascended the stairs to the top of the lighthouse with Mycroft following behind him.

He seemed rather content with staring out in the distance, looking at the endless amount of sea. The waves were sluggishly crawling along the coast before they retreated from the sand and the pebbles. There was a hypnotic effect that seemed to come over Sherlock as he stared at the sea, being taken in by the dormant energy of the sea.

  
“It is beautiful,” Mycroft said, breaking his brother from his trace. “It is one of the reasons why I like it so much...You never know what beauty is until you are surrounded by nature. It gives life a new meaning I believe. It is what I’m hoping to write about when I’m here.”

“How long are you planning to stay up here?” Sherlock asked. “This is not your life, no matter how beautiful it is. When are you going to go back to London? Once you get a book written?”

“This is home now, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, trying to end the conversation before it had really begun. “I am happy here. It’s different from what life used to be but I’m happy.”

“You are happy here?” Sherlock asked, letting out an undignified snort. “Don’t lie to me, brother dear. We know that you are going to be climbing the walls out of boredom in weeks. How long has it been since you’ve retired.”

  
“Four months,” Mycroft replied, “three weeks and two days and yet I am not bored and rather content about living here. I do consultations and offer advice to Anthea, it is only fair after she helped me so much over the years.”

“You miss it,” Sherlock smirked. “You miss the work, there is hardly anything to keep you occupied here.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to snort and he shook his head at his brother, fed up with the conversation, it had been the same one that they had each time Sherlock decided to communicate with him. “You never asked if I was happy in London,” he said. “You’ve never even seemed to consider it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again, caught off guard by his statement. “Were you happy in London?” he asked.

  
“No,” Mycroft replied simply. “The perks were nice and I did enjoy them. I liked the puzzle-solving aspect of my job but it was not a life that I would have chosen for myself.”

“And this is?” Sherlock asked with a chuckle. “You never have joked before Mycroft and I recommend that you don’t start now. “

Mycroft shrugged and kept his eyes on the seagulls that were squawking on the ledge outside the lighthouse. They suddenly took flight and quickly disappeared into the endless distance. He often wondered where they went, never spending much thought on it as they always returned later on.

“I’m happier here than I have been in London,” Mycroft reluctantly confessed. “I believe that no one misses an office job and welcomes a change in pace especially with the life that I had. The lack of responsibility has been refreshing and I have been able to sleep for more than three hours at a time.”

“You love London though! I’m surprised that London hasn’t fallen with you not being there.”

“I’m starting to think that you miss me,” Mycroft replied, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. The thought made him rather sentimental and made him think of those few precious and happy years in Musgrave before things ultimately went pear-shaped. 

“I’m tempted to throw myself off the top of the lighthouse,” Sherlock commented. “You know that I hate comments like this, even more so when they come from you. They really don’t suit you.”

Sherlock offered him a cigarette, Mycroft politely declined. “I managed to quit the habit,” he explained. “I stopped completely after the first month of being here. I do not think that it is suitable to smoke in a lighthouse.”

Sherlock shrugged and lit up his cigarette and opened up the window, it was the most consideration than he had ever shown in his life. “Rules are meant to be broken.” 

Mycroft let out an amused laugh. There was not much that he missed about his old life but he did miss his brother. It was the only thing that he missed about being in London, he didn’t have as much contact with his brother as he used to be. They did seem to get on better the less time they spent with another and the less he meddled in Sherlock’s life. 

“Were you really that unhappy with London?” Sherlock asked, rather uncertainly, breaking the silence that had grown between them. 

“It was not a life that I would have chosen...I suppose that no one wants to be behind a desk,” Mycroft replied, his eyes glued to the distance. “I had always wanted to be a writer or paint, I never had the opportunity to do so before.”

“Why didn’t you?” Sherlock asked. “You are an adult and you can make your own decisions.”

Mycroft sighed and turned away from the window, looking at his brother. “I did what I did so you can have the life that you wanted,” he murmured. “I do not regret doing it. It allowed you to be unaffected by the burdens of looking after our sister. I am the eldest and it was expected of me to take the post from Uncle Rudy and I did so. It was not a life that I wanted for myself and now I finally have the opportunity to choose.”

  
Sherlock did not say anything for several moments, unsure of what to say. Mycroft could practically see the cogs turn around in his head as he tried to find something to say. “It is beautiful up here,” he finally uttered out. “I suppose that I can visit again soon. I have more reason since Lestrade is up here. I think that Mummy would like it, she does miss you.”

  
“Don’t be silly,” Mycroft said, shaking his head. “We know that it is better that I keep to myself for a while still.”

“So much for keeping to yourself,” Sherlock said, letting out an amused snort, “you are already getting friendly with Lestrade. He likes you, I can tell.”

Mycroft pretended not to be as interested as he was in the matter as he was. He pretended that his attention was focused on a fishing boat in the distance, quickly changing the subject as he asked. 

* * *

Greg walked along the pebbled path to the cottage by the lighthouse with a basket in hand. The winds were strong, his coat offered little protection against them, the chill making his way down to his bones and making them ache. He hoped that the cup of tea that Mycroft had invited him around for would help, the warmth from the tea would linger in his middle. 

He caught a glimpse of Mycroft by a rock pool, crouched over and carefully inspecting it carefully. There was a plastic bag beside him and upon further inspection, Greg realised that it was full of rubbish, plastic bottles and bits of glass that had been washed up from the sea. 

“Lovely weather to do a litter pick,” Greg commented, walking up to Mycroft and trying his best not to limp. He wondered if he should have used his walking stick but he referred to take it out of the cupboard, too proud to use it after he decided that he was finished with physiotherapy and he was able to walk for longer distances. 

“Someone has to do it,” Mycroft replied with a smile on his face upon seeing him. “There was some plastic that ended up in a rockpool and it was bothering the starfish.”

  
“The amount of litter that people end up leaving behind is awful,” Greg replied. “It’s people like you who ensure that there is some beauty left in the world.”

  
Mycroft’s ears turned pink, he cleared his throat and nodded in the direction of the basked. “I see that you brought some bread up for your visit.”

Greg shook his head and rearranged the blanket over the basket. “Not quite,” he said. “I think that we need to get inside.”

“What’s in the basket?” Mycroft asked. “I suppose that we should get inside and I’ll get some tea made to warm you up.”

Mycroft got the kettle on and got a fire started, instructing Greg to sit down on the comfortable armchair. Greg inspected the small collection of shells and sea glass that Mycroft had on the mantelpiece which wasn’t there the last time. 

“I’ve managed to find a few pieces when I’ve been cleaning the beach,” Mycroft said, poking his head around the kitchen door. “You can take something if you would want. Sherlock has taken a few shells for his collection and sand samples.”

“How was your visit from Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Good,” Mycroft said simply. “It’s the first time that we’ve spoken in years without an argument. He cannot understand why I am up here and I think that he misses me, he will not say.”

“The same talk that I had with him, ” Greg commented. “Does he keep asking you to come back?”

Mycroft shook his head and walked through with two mismatched mugs, handing one to Greg before he sat down. “I think that he understands why I am up here,” he said. “He knows that I’m happy here even if he might not understand why.”

“That’s all you can ask for with Sherlock,” Greg nodded. “He’s happy in London, he’s got John and he can harass people in Scotland Yard and save the day, what more does he need? He doesn’t understand the appeal in a slower life, not now at least.”

There was a movement under the blanket and Greg pushed the basked forward to Mycroft, encouraging him to move it. Mycroft looked at him with a confused expression on his face but he pulled back the blanket. A smile formed on his face as he found a small cat underneath, a tiger-striped tabby with piercing eyes. 

  
“I’ve got supplies for her in the back of the car,” Greg said, admiring the look of adoration on Mycroft’s face towards the cat. 

“You shouldn’t have,” Mycroft said. “Where on earth did you get her?”

“One of my customers is moving back to the mainland and this one was a barn cat,” he said. “They didn’t want to leave her up here and no one was interested in taking her, the Wallaces are convinced that she is half-feral. I reckon that she would do rather well being a lighthouse keepers' cat and you could do with the company.”

Mycroft looked as if he didn’t know what to say, looking completely overcome with the gesture. 

“You don’t have to take her if it is too much,” Greg said. “I know that it was a bit bold of me to assume that you would want her...I just remember you talking about getting a cat.”

Mycroft shook his head, the cat had already made a place in Mycroft’s lap and seemed unwilling to move from it, making it clear that it had settled itself and considered the cottage home. “That is the most wonderful thing that someone has ever done for me,” he said sincerely. “I do not deserve such kindness.”

Greg shook his head. “You keep the beaches beautiful and you did a wonderful job arranging shortbread for the other day in the village hall, it’s the least that I can do.”

The smile still on Mycroft’s face and he looked rather overwhelmed with the gesture. He had the odd feeling that Mycroft had not experienced such happiness in his life before and when he had done so, it was the brief and fleeting sort. 

  
“There must be something that I can do to repay you,” Mycroft said. 

  
“You don’t need to do anything of the sort,” Greg replied. 

  
“Can I at least make you another cup of tea or ask you to stay for dinner?” Mycroft asked, rather shyly. “I am not the best cook but it saves you going out in the cold.”

Greg cleared his throat and tried to work up the courage before he spoke. It had been a long time since he had even really flirted with anyone. There hadn’t been anyone who had taken his fancy on the island and didn’t think that anyone would. His confidence had taken a beating since retiring and the divorce before. “I was wondering...do you fancy going to the mainland with me sometime? I can show you around and I know a few good places to eat and we can do some sightseeing.”

“I would love that,” Mycroft said without a moment of hesitation. The smile on his face was stronger than any beam from the lighthouse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done it and got Mycroft a cat! Any suggestions for names? 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented on this story and liked it, it means so much as it just started off as a daft idea and it's turned out to be so wonderful!


	7. Chapter 7

The sound of Bea’s rumble of a purr woke him up gently and with a clumsy hand, Mycroft reached across the bed and to her head, scratching behind her ears, making her purr louder. She nuzzled against his hand before she stretched lazily before she jumped off the bed and sauntered into the kitchen. 

When she left, Mycroft rolled into the middle of the bed, having been pressed against the wall to make room for Bea. He couldn’t understand how a cat could take up so much space or why the rule that the cat should sleep in her own bed had only lasted ten minutes at the most. He could hear her high pitched meowing from the kitchen, he closed his eyes and pretended to ignore it for a moment, hoping that she would decide to go back into bed. 

Without a grumble, Mycroft put on his dressing gown and made his way out of bed and into the kitchen. He used to have world leaders at his whim and they were terrified of him, quietly following any instruction that he had given them but now he had found himself bossed around by a cat and followed her bidding without even the slightest amount of protest. 

“Oh how the mighty have fallen,” Mycroft mumbled to himself as he went into the kitchen. He quickly set up the fire once he had fed Bea, made a cup of tea to warm himself up before he put on his thick jumper, his boots and jacket for his walk along the beach. He had hoped that he would feel inspired by nature and the sea and that an idea would finally come to him. 

His daily walk along the beach had become a comforting ritual ever since he moved up from London. He loved the smell of the sea and the slight saltiness that was in the air, that alone made him want to stay up there for the rest of his life, he did not miss the pollution one bit. As much as he liked the isolation of his cottage by the lighthouse, he did not mind venturing out of his self-imposed cocoon every now and then. He found himself enjoying the company of Beacon and of Greg, of course. 

He did not know if he would ever become a proper member of the community, not sure if he would be accepted or if he wanted to be fully integrated. He knew that his old life in London was not one that he had picked for himself and as much as he enjoyed being in the highlands, he was still not entirely sure if it was the life for him. 

He hardly knew how he was meant to know what or where his life was meant to be. He had little idea how to know if it was the right path that he was on or if he should start again. He believed that it must have been like writing, there was little point in trying to find the right one to pursue; you just found yourself there. 

Even if he didn’t know if he found the right life for himself at the moment, he knew that he was content. Much more than he had ever been when he was in London and in his old life. He had always been somewhat suspicious of happiness before; it always never seemed to last or something awful always seemed to happen after those few precious moments- usually, his brother was somehow involved in it. It had taken him by surprise that the brief happiness that he had when he moved into the cottage seemed to linger, growing into something more. The lighthouse seemed to be a beacon of happiness for him. 

  
He wanted to trap that happiness if he could and keep it with him for the rest of his days. He tried to do something with Bea. He tried to find the most perfect name for her once Greg had gone home but nothing seemed to suit her. He did not care much for names which were traditionally used for cats and Bea did not respond or seemed to care much for the names that he considered. He wanted a name that reflected the inexplicable burst of happiness that he experienced upon laying his eyes on her for the first time.

Beacon only seemed to be the only appropriate name, though she did respond to Bea. He told the woman in the pet shop when she made conversation about him about cats that it was short for Beatrix, giving him the true name of his cat felt rather personal. He knew that it would be impossible to explain the happiness that a cat had brought him without sounding mad or like his cat-obsessed maiden aunt. 

He walked along the beach, briefly considering walking up the hill that was near the cottage. The area was mostly rock and pebbles, far too dangerous to walk up by himself and he knew that climbing up things like a mountain goat was more his brother’s area than his own. 

He was procrastinating from going into the town to get supplies for dinner tonight. He had a bundle of nerves that seemed to form in his stomach despite his excitement to have Greg around for dinner. He was able to cook for himself but doubted that his cooking would be suitable for guests, especially not Greg at least especially with his baking abilities and the pages that he wrote in the community newspaper. 

He hardly knew that he would even cook for Greg and spent hours looking at recipes online. He spent more time in the town than he ever had looking for ingredients and inspiration, even taking a day trip to Inverness to help him find the right thing to cook. 

His cooking abilities had improved massively since his days in London, no longer relying on fancy restaurants and swanky clubs. He could cook well but he doubted that it would impress Greg. He wondered if he should phone Greg and make dinner reservations, or take the food home and place it on his own plate under the guise of having made it himself. 

He carefully inspected the cupboards once he was in the kitchen, trying to find inspiration in them. He let out a sigh and switched on the kettle, knowing that he would have to cook Greg more than just beans and toast for dinner in the attempt to even get a raised eyebrow of interest from Greg. 

* * *

  
Greg had closed the bakery door an hour ago but had been unable to close, having been invited to sit at the table by two of his customers. Mrs Cruickshank and Mrs Rowe as they finished off their pot of tea and their scones. They had bought him a coffee and a slice of cake to get him to sit with them. They always did the same each time they visited for tea despite Greg’s insistence that they didn’t need to buy him a cake, he was the baker after all and he happily would sit with them for a chat if they asked. 

  
They liked to tell him of the gossip in the community, almost fearing that he was missing out since he didn’t go to the church and all of the social events. They exchanged recipes and were keen to give him the history of the community, quickly getting him involved in community events and cake sales. They tried to teach him Gaelic and the Scots’ dialect when he first moved up with little success, believing that it would help him find his place in the community or at least help him understand the farmers and his customers with strong accents. Mrs Rowe used to teach history in Inverness and she had been keen to teach him Scottish history, claiming that he was ‘alright for being an Englishman.’ 

“Are you sure that there isn’t anyone that you like, Greg?” Mrs Cruickshank said, nibbling on her scone. “There are a lot of lasses who would love to be with someone like you. It is impossible not to fall for someone who can bake like you.”

  
Greg placed a smile on his face and decided to have a sip of coffee to prevent a sigh from coming out. The conversation came up so regularly that Greg did not need to think of a response, his replies came automatically. He had the conversation regularly with his customers ever since he arrived, some had even asked if he wanted to go for dinner or a drink with their daughters, nieces, and even granddaughters. He politely declined all offers, mentioning that he was ‘focusing on the bakery,’ and that he wasn’t interested. 

“I’m focusing on improving my millionaire shortbread,” he fibbed. “I’m going to be far too busy dealing with the caramel and my shortbread to even think about leaving the bakery.”

“I saw you buying wine,” Mrs Rowe said, knowingly. “You’ve got yourself a lady, haven’t you? You never buy wine when you are in the pub, you always go for a whisky or a scotch, it's why I bought you one for your birthday. Who are you trying to impress?”

It was the downside of living in such a close-knit community, everyone seemed to know what he was doing and it was always a cause of gossip. It was one thing that he missed about London, he was a stranger there and no one seemed to care about it him. It was easy to fade into obscurity there, he believed that it was half the reason people flocked to the city. 

“I’m going to dinner with a friend,” Greg replied, trying to hide his displeasure of having pensioners spying on his shopping. “ Not a lady friend.”

  
“Who is that then?” Mrs Rowe said, curiosity painted on her features. “Anyone that we know? Jessie?”

Mrs Cruickshank nudged Mrs Rowe under the table, causing the woman to yelp. “Let him alone, Mary, “ she said. “I’m just glad that you aren’t spending all the nights with the cat, love. We do worry about you.” 

  
“No reason to be,” Greg shrugged, standing up as he stood up and clearing up the empty plates from the table. “ Would you like to take anything home with you? I’ve got some shortbread and a bit of black bun left.”

He occupied himself with bagging up the cakes, knowing that the ladies would take anything home with them. They always did, it was a bit silly asking the question really. He lifted up his head when he heard the bell ring as the door was opened, Mycroft appearing looking rather windblown and with a big scarf wrapped around his neck. 

“The shop is closed, dear,” Mrs Rowe said to him. “ We are just leaving, we’ve been a bit bad and staying past closing time.”

“I do apologise,” Mycroft said. “ I did not read the sign and I assumed that you were open. I’ll see you tonight at around seven?”

Greg shook his head and made his way to the counter, urging Mycroft to stay. He started to bag up shortbread for Mycroft as soon as he saw him. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “What can I get for you?”

“I was just wondering if you had any bread left?” Mycroft asked. “I’ll take anything that you have. I just love your baking, I cannot eat Hovis any longer since I’ve had your bread.”

Greg’s ears went pink and he felt a warmth on his cheeks. He tried to ignore the giggle that the ladies let out and quietly excused himself to the back of the shop. He had a white loaf left, simple bread but it was wonderful toasted. He looked at the time and debated if he should make a loaf to bring to Mycroft’s cottage, he would have time if he worked quickly. 

“It’s unsliced,” he mumbled as he handed the bag to Mycroft along with the shortbread once his face had cooled down slightly. “ I hope that you don’t mind too much.” 

Mycroft took out his wallet and Greg quickly denied him, shaking his head vigorously. “You don’t have to pay,” he said, placing his hand on Mycroft’s handing him the five-pound note back. “It’s fine, the loaf didn’t turn out right. I’m sorry that it couldn’t be a better one.”   
  


“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft said, a smile forming on his features. “You are a wonderful baker. These ladies will have similar thoughts. I’ll see you tonight.” 

He seemed to leave the bakery almost reluctantly, not quite wanting to leave. Greg watched him from the window as he walked away, fading into the small scattering of people in the town. 

“Dinner with Mike?” Mrs Cruickshank said, teasingly. “I did not expect to see that. He normally keeps to himself and is a nice lad. Always so polite.” 

Mrs Rowe made a noise of agreement, nodding approvingly. “You do seem to have a fancy for him, don’t you? The way that your cheeks went pink when he complimented your baking. It doesn’t make sense though…” 

She hummed thoughtfully and Greg closed his eyes to brace himself for a homophobic comment. He had been expecting them since he moved up and kept his head down. It was why he left for London when he finished with college, everyone in the small town he came from did so, being different would lead to trouble. London allowed him to avoid most of the comments and teasing, it was easy enough to hide his bisexuality when he got married not long after he joined the police. 

“What doesn’t make sense, Mrs Cruishank?” Greg asked, rather resultantly through gritted teeth. 

  
“Don’t all your type go to London?” she asked. “There is more of a ‘scene,’ as my Harry says. He couldn’t get away from here quick enough and stays down in London now, he’s got a husband and a dog.”

Greg opened his eyes, not expecting to hear that comment from her, she was rather religious and very active in the church after all. “I didn’t expect you to say that,” he said, letting out the breath that he had been holding. 

  
“Did you think that we were homophobic?” Mrs Rowe asked, almost offended at his reaction. “Just because we are up here and old doesn’t mean that we are ignorant. I’m shocked that you would think of us as being so rude. We wouldn’t want to lose our baker and we don’t want you leaving for London, don’t we, Jane?” 

  
Mrs Cruikshank made a noise of agreement before she sat down at the table, ordering another pot of tea and cup of coffee for Greg, asking him for his recipe for the cherry cake in return for her recipe for tablet. 

  
Greg smiled to himself as he started to make another pot of tea, feeling like he could breathe easily around his favourite customers for the first time that he had joined the community. 

* * *

Greg inspected himself in the mirror, trying not to frown too much at the small amount of pudge that had formed since he had taken over the bakery, he did like to sample his own cakes too much and wasn’t running around London these days. 

He pulled on his coat and walked to the car with a bottle of wine and his basket of bread. He adjusted his trouser leg before he walked into the car, thankfully not limping. The smell of the bread that he made was intoxicating and he felt rather proud of the loaf that he made despite the time contrasts he had. He hoped that Mycroft would just be as pleased as he was with it. He had also brought more shortbread for him in the basket, trying to ignore the feeling that Mycroft had only invited him around for dinner and kept visiting the bakery for the free shortbread.    
  
He doubted that a man like Mycroft would be interested in him, a grey-haired and old copper, who was most definitely past his prime. He sat in the car, wondering if he should just cancel the plans and stay home, he knew that he was kidding himself with his hopes that Mycroft might actually fancy him.

He let out his sigh and started to play his Clash cd in the car in the attempt to tune out the self-deprecating thoughts that were in his brain as he started to drive to the cottage. It was just two friends having dinner together, he knew that there wasn’t anything daunting about it even if he felt painfully nervous, similar to how he felt when he was sixteen and going on a date with a popular girl in school. 

He drove to the cottage in good time and hesitated before he left the car, trying to ignore the urge to turn the car around and go home. It had been ages since he had done anything like this, feeling awkward and as if he had forgotten the rules and how to go about this social occasion. 

He saw Mycroft open up the door and throw something out of the door. There was a smell of smoke and Mycroft looked flustered from the glimpse that Greg saw of him from the car. 

  
“Everything alright?” Greg asked, walking to the cottage and letting himself in. He placed the wine and the basket on the counter and saw that the kitchen looked as if a tornado had run through it with the mess and there was a pile of dishes that Mycroft had not even attempted to start on. 

  
“No..it’s fine,” Mycroft uttered, looking embarrassed and flustered, his face red and his hair sticking up in all directions. “ Perhaps we should reschedule. I’m sorry that you walked into a pigsty.”

  
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Greg shrugged. “You look as if you need a cup of tea in you- a glass of wine in you. What were you throwing out?”

Mycroft did not say anything for several moments, hesitating before he spoke. “That was dessert...I wanted to make you a cake to thank you for all of the shortbread. I forgot about it and let it burn and dinner is not looking much better.”

“What was that meant to be?” Greg asked, inspecting the charred mess that was on a baking tray, poking it with a butter knife “Is that puff pastry?” 

“It was meant to be a beef Wellington,” Mycroft groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I don't even know why I tried. I never cook for anyone other than myself.”

Greg tried to scrape off the burnt bits with the knife, rather flattered that someone had made this much effort for him. “I think that it is fine once you get the burnt bits off,” he said. “This is a lot fancier than I usually made for me. I’ve made one of these before and they are temperamental, same with risotto. It’s why I never bother, I’m flattered that you went to all this effort for me.”

Mycroft lifted up his head from his hands. “I thought that you cook things like this, you have a recipe column in the village newspaper.”

“I cook fancy things and make an effort if I have company or I need to write something for the newspaper,” Greg said with a shrug. “I’m on my own eating dinner with a cat, beans and toast is a staple for me. There isn’t much point in making a big effort if it’s just me.”

He realised that the Wellington was a lost cause and picked up an apron that Mycroft had thrown on the table in defeat. He placed the plug in the sink and started to run the tap, deciding that he should wash Mycroft’s dishes.

“Have a glass of wine,” he said in response to Mycroft’s protests. “You need to have one after all this chaos that you put yourself in. Do you have any baked beans? Also any flour? I can make up a cake.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
“This is not the evening that I envisioned for us,” Mycroft said, pushing the baked beans around on his plate, a sheepish expression on his face. “I’m sorry that it was not what you expected.”

“I think that if life went as expected then it wouldn’t be interesting,” Greg replied with a shrug. “I’m glad that you invited me around for dinner, it has been a while since I’ve last had company...you must get lonely yourself. I know that you have the cat these days, have you given her a name?”

“Bea,” Mycroft said, almost reluctantly, the sheepish expression on his features. He had been on edge since Greg had arrived and had not relaxed even having a glass of wine. 

“What is that short for?” Greg asked. “I can’t imagine that you would allow a cat to have a short name? Is it short for Beatrice?”

He nudged Mycroft’s foot under the table with his good leg to encourage him to answer. “It is a bit silly,” Mycroft grimaced. “It is short for Beacon...I know that it is a silly name for a cat...even for one that lives next to a lighthouse.” 

“I don’t think that at all,” Greg said quickly. “ Beacon is a perfectly wonderful name for her! Makes sense as she is a lighthouse keeper’s cat. She was a beacon of joy to you, I can tell especially with that smile on your face when you saw her.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, glancing at the cat who was sleeping on the sofa, a smile forming his features. “That is why I called her that,” he said, shyly. 

Greg reached over the table and grabbed his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m glad that she brings a bit of happiness to you,” he said, smiling. “I thought that she could help keep you company. Did she help you find what was missing?”

  
Mycroft looked at him and shook his head, biting his lip. “I think that there is something else that is missing.”

  
“I’m still willing to help you find it,” Greg said, pretending to be more confident than he felt, running his fingers through his hair and fiddling with his shirt. “I would be happy to do so.” 

“Have you found out what makes you special?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Greg shook his head. “I don’t think that there is anything that special about me.”

“I think that you are completely wrong about that,” Mycroft said, challenging him. “It will take some time but I can assure you that you will find it one day.”

  
The two fell into easy conversation with another, Greg feeling as if he had known Mycroft for years instead of the short time that he had actually known him. They sat on the sofa and chatted, their silences still feeling like a wonderful conversation. He swore that Mycroft’s hand brushed against his far too many times to be accidental, the same with his compliments. 

“I should get going,” Greg said reluctantly, once he had looked at the time and realised that it was close to midnight, having completely lost track of the time. 

“It is too late to drive,” Mycroft said. “The roads are appalling here, especially at night. I nearly had an accident with a deer the other day, you should just stay for the night...I have a spare room.”

  
Greg licked his lips and nodded after a moment of debate, carefully weighing up the pros and cons. It would be a lot safer even if he had nothing with him, and it was hardly how he expected to spend the evening, spending it in Mycroft’s spare bedroom. 

“That would be lovely,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Thank you.” 

Mycroft smiled at him, his hand brushing against his teasingly as he excused himself to find a spare toothbrush for him and clothes for the next evening. Greg went to the kitchen, deciding to wash the last of the dishes from the dessert in the attempt to make himself feel useful. 

“This might not fit but it should keep you warm,” Mycroft said, handing a jumper to Greg when he walked back into the room. 

  
It smelt like his aftershave and Greg resisted the urge to sniff it when he left the room. Mycroft showed him to the spare bedroom and hesitated by the door. 

  
“Good night, Myc,” Greg said, shuffling from one foot to the other. “It was a lovely night tonight and thanks for inviting me.”

“I do apologise that dinner did not go as planned,” Mycroft said, rather awkwardly. “I can make a much better attempt for breakfast for you.”

Greg shook his head, running his hand through his hair. “Dinner was wonderful,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  
In a burst of confidence that seemed to come out of nowhere, Greg walked closed and kissed his cheek. A brief kiss that could be taken as something more if Mycroft wanted to interpret it as something more. 

  
Mycroft’s ears went pink.

* * *

He was woken up by the noise of footsteps, a clattering around the cottage. The noise startled him, temporarily forgetting that Greg was in the flat. He checked the time, it was half- five in the morning. 

  
He removed Bea from his chest and shuffled out of bed, wrapping his dressing-gown around himself. He made his way to the hall, catching Greg fiddling around with the door, swearing quietly. The jumper that he had given him looked wonderful on him, the colour suited his complexion. 

“Are you sneaking out on me?” Mycroft asked, trying to ignore the feeling of disappointment that had formed in his chest. “I thought that you would have said something before you left. The door is rather stiff and you need to push the door as you turn the key.”

“I’m meant to be in the bakery and have the doors open for seven,” Greg said, looking rather flustered. “I’ve barely got anything and I’m meant to be proving my bread by now. I’m so behind on all my work and I’m meant to be getting a wedding cake made.”

“Give me a few minutes,” Mycroft said. “I can help you get organised. It will be much easier with two sets of hands.” 

  
An expression of confusion made its way on Greg’s features and shook his head once he realised what Mycroft had said. “You don’t need to do that,” he said. “You’ve done far too much for me, I stupidly overslept.”

“I can still help,” Mycroft insisted. “ I can work the till at least and deal with the customers if you need to be in the back baking. I do not know how to bake but you can teach me. I can do the dishes if needed. It is only fair, I did keep you from your work by having you stay last night. ”

Greg opened his mouth and closed it, not quite sure what to say or how to react to such an offer. It had been one of the meaningful acts of kindness that he had experienced in the highlands, in life perhaps. 

“Go and make us some tea,” Mycroft instructed him lightly, walking into his room. “ I need several minutes to get dressed and feed the cat and we can go to the bakery.”

Greg switched on the kettle without a word, a grin forming on his face. He certainly did not expect this to happen but he had the feeling that today would be interesting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that this chapter was suitable for everyone, needed to write a bit of fluff to cheer me up after the news of a lockdown. 
> 
> I love the name Beacon for the cat, it was so wonderful! Thank you for everyone who suggested it! 
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos, it means a lot that people like this mess of a strory!


	8. Chapter 8

“You know that you don’t have to do this,” Greg said for the fourth time that morning, his voice slightly muffled by the bedroom door as he freshened up, changing out of the clothes that he wore the evening before. “You’ve done so much for me and it was kind of you to let me stay in the cottage. Helping out in the bakery is too much, I’ll have to pay you for the day.”

“You can pay me in shortbread,” Mycroft replied, on the other side of the bedroom door. “I will still pay for it and the countless packets of it that you’ve been giving me recently.” 

  
  


Mycroft walked around Greg's flat, unsure what to do with himself, feeling as if he was intruding by being there. He looked at the pictures of Greg in his police uniform, there was several, some of Greg looking much younger with his parents and ones of Greg that seemed to be much more recent. There was one that was on the mantelpiece that Mycroft had a fondness for, a picture of Greg with his brother and John Watson. The picture was taken in 221B and Mycroft believed that it was for Sherlock’s birthday, he could identify the card that he sent his brother in the background from three years ago. 

  
Greg looked handsome in the picture even if he looked more worn down than he did now. He looked younger and more attractive in person. . Mycroft believed it must have been from all the fresh air and perhaps being out in nature. He wondered if being in Scotland must have had anti-ageing properties, after all, he felt much younger and happier than he did when he was in London.

Greg's cat had wrapped herself around his ankles, meowing pathetically for attention. She seemed to guide him into the kitchen and stood by her bowl, high pitched noises were coming out of her, noises that were rather kitten-like instead of a cat her age. Mycroft saw the empty bowl and sighed, rummaging around the kitchen cupboards to find food for the cat, he hoped that Greg wouldn’t have minded too much- he did wash the dishes in the cottage the evening before, cooked dinner and baked a cake in his kitchen after all. 

“See that Crumble has used mind control on you and got you to feed her,” Greg commented as he walked into the kitchen, freshly shaved and with two aprons in his hand. He handed them to Mycroft before he reached over to the cat to stroke her ears but she dismissed him completely, turning her nose up at him, offended. “Happens all the time when I am five minutes past her feeding time or when I move her off the bed at night. Do you have that problem with Beacon?”

“She has her preferred time to be fed but she is a rather content cat,” Mycroft answered, a smile creeping on his face as Crumble wrapped herself around his ankles again before she sauntered downstairs. “She does like to sit on my notebooks or my laptop when I am trying to work and has taken to going into the lighthouse with me. I believe that she is hunting for seagulls.”

“Told you that she would be a wonderful lighthouse keepers’ cat,” Greg grinned. “I knew that she would be running up to the lighthouse with you. The view must be amazing up from there, being on top of the world.”

Mycroft smiled to himself in agreement to what he said. The feeling was one that never lost its novelty, the feeling that he was on top of the world or at least being right on the edge of it. To his left, he could make out the tops of the buildings of the town and nothing much more, only really able to look at the hills and the pastures. To his right, he could stare out into the endless waters and the horizon, watching the occasional boat. He often wondered what was on the other end of those waters. He didn’t think that there was much there, being right on the edge of the earth but there seemed like an infantine amount of possibilities of what could be there. 

“The view makes the stairs worth climbing up every morning,” Mycroft smiled. “Bea puts me to shame with how quickly she runs up them.”

  
“Is there a lot of them?” Greg asked.

  
“One hundred and seventy-eight,” Mycroft replied quickly. “Spiral as well. Being on the top of the lighthouse makes up for it. You can see the whole community up there among with all of the hills. The sea looks endless and just so full of possibilities. There is nothing like watching the sunrise and set from a lighthouse as well, watching the stars up there. You do feel as if you are one with nature up there and it makes you happy to be alive and being able to witness the complex of beauty of it. You forget that it excited and become too used to seeing the grey when you are in the city. ”

“Discovering it again makes everything that you went through worth it,” Greg said simply. “Finding that sudden burst of light again in life and all the colours that break through the grey.”

“I completely agree with you,” Mycroft said, giving him a shy smile. “What you said was beautiful.”

Greg shuffled on his feet, favouring one leg to the other. “You can use that for a book if you wish. I never knew that you liked being in the lighthouse so much. I worry that you might feel lonely being out there on your own .”

“I’m not,” Mycroft replied. “I’ve got you and I’ve got Bea. I’m surrounded by nature and I can assure you that I’m the happiest I have been in years. I am not as isolated as I used to be. I may live away from the community but I do see the benefits of popping in and out occasionally. I suppose today will be an experience, being right in the middle of it. “

  
Greg opened up the door and started walking down the stairs to the bakery, Mycroft followed behind him, Crumble sauntering in front of them to get her spot by the window, kneading the cushion as it was dough before she curled up on it, her ears only twitching when she heard seagulls squawking. 

He followed Greg behind the counter into the small kitchen and put on his apron. Greg showed him where the sink was to wash his hands as he started to switch on the ovens. The kitchen was smaller than Mycroft had expected but rather cosy. The kitchen heated up quickly from the ovens, quickly removing the chill from Mycroft’s bones.

“What do you need me to do ?” Mycroft asked.

Greg had his whites on and his apron already was covered in flour even after being in the kitchen for less than ten minutes. He was already putting loaves of bread in the oven, a dough that he had proving overnight in between measuring out flour in a bowl.

“There are cakes that I made last night that can go out now,” Greg said. “They just need to be bagged up and put out. Depending on how busy we are, I might need you to help me get some cakes made up and decorated. Have you done anything of the sort?” 

Mycroft shook his head, looking away as Greg covered in flour was a rather endearing look. “I have done nothing of the sort, the most that I have done baking wise was place your shortbread on slates and made a disastrous attempt of a cake. I think that working the till and washing up is the most of my abilities.”

Greg snorted and flicked flour at him. “I’m going to make a baker out of you in no time. I’ll have to give you private lessons I think. We can stay here once the shop is closed and I can show you how to do the basics. Teach you how to make bread.”  
  


“ I wouldn’t want to learn how to do that,” Mycroft replied, shaking his head vigorously. “I wouldn’t want you to stop visiting me with loaves of bread and I would miss my visits to the bakery.”  
  


He moved close to Greg as he tried to find the bags for the cake, purposely grazing his hand across Greg’s. “Besides, I think that you know that teaching me to make bread would be a huge mistake,” he uttered. “I like to think that you enjoy visiting me and having me come to the bakery as well.”

“I think that you know the answer to that,” Greg winked, flicking flour at Mycroft once again. 

* * *

It was easy enough to master the till considering how he had never worked with one before. Thankfully he had not made too many mistakes, Greg was quick to remedy them. He couldn’t understand some of the thick accents at times even after being in the Highlands for several months but thankfully the customers seemed to find it amusing- they commented on his accent as well. 

He had never worked in a shop before but he had been curious what it was like over the years. He had always been somewhat curious about how ordinary people went around the world even if they did bore him considerably at times. His first position was organising the files and making mugs of tea in Uncle Rudy’s office before he was moved to the cryptography department after several months. He did some fieldwork not long after had finished university before he had slowly worked his way up the ladder to his _minor position in the British government._

He never thought that he would be decorating biscuits and making cups of tea for pensioners. He had the feeling that the customers were being kind to him, taking pity on him as he must have looked rather lost behind the till. Mycroft tried to not feel too embarrassed when a customer asked Greg if he let the school children decorate the biscuits and cakes which were on display. 

  
The customers were keen to chat to him, probing him with questions about why they hadn’t really seen him in the town or why he ended up coming up from London. They seemed rather fascinated with him, taking great interest in the fact that he was an outsider. He wondered if Greg had a similar experience when he had first settled up there. 

He managed to avoid their questions, for the most part, giving them vague answers when they asked him about what he had done in London. He told them that he worked in an office and it kept them happy. It was the answer that he told people what he did, no one ever asked what type of office he worked in or cared. 

The smell of bread that came from the bakery was almost intoxicating. Mycroft had no idea how Greg managed to work in such an environment, he knew that he would put on the pounds quickly with all of the samples of what Greg gave him, under the guise that he needed to know how good all the products were to sell them. 

Greg closed the bakery short after lunchtime, the cakes had been sold out. He claimed that it was a quiet day even though there was a stream of customers who were outside the shop at times and the bread had been sold out. The new loaves of bread that Greg had baked were gone within the hour. 

Greg switched the sign to close and flopped onto one of the chairs, two mugs of coffee in his hand. He helped himself to one of the cakes and threw his flour and cocoa powder-covered apron on the table. There was flour on his face but did not seem too concerned about it. “You can sit down, you don’t need to do the washing up,” he said. “Help yourself to a cake.” 

Mycroft hesitated for the moment and put down the cloth that he was using to wipe down the counter. “I don’t mind washing up, you've been working hard in the back,” he said, “I wouldn’t have done so well without you. I did make several mistakes. I cannot believe that they thought school children decorated the biscuits I did for you. I am still mortified.”

Greg chuckled and broke the brownie that he was eating in half, pushing the chair out with his foot, inviting Mycroft to sit down. “You aren’t going to get it perfect first time,” he said. “I can assure you that I’ve done an awful job at times. I’ve had to chuck out whole batches of cakes and burnt things. I had to chuck out a pot as I burnt caramel on it last week and there was no salvaging it.”

Mycroft sat down and accepted the brownie that Greg gave him a shy smile. “You’ve done absolutely brilliant today. Thanks for all of your help,” Greg smiled. “I should be asking you if you want a job.”

Mycroft considered the matter seriously for a moment. It did sound rather appealing working in the bakery, spending all that time with Greg. “I would have to learn how to bake,” he said. “I would love it but it would be disastrous for my diet.”

Greg let out an undefined snort and shook his head. “You wouldn’t need to worry about that. You willingly walk up those stairs in the lighthouse and it will make up for the shortbread. What did you think of it? It’s probably the first time that you’ve met your neighbours properly.”

“I have always been interested in working in a shop,” Mycroft answered, between a sip of coffee. “I did rather enjoy it even if the customers were playing twenty questions with me. Do they eventually lose their interest to outsiders of the community?”

“Give it a year or two and the novelty will wear off for them,” Greg said with a shrug. “They thankfully lost interest in me once they tried my baking. You look after a lighthouse after coming up from London. I was not expecting someone like you looking after it.” 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in confusion. “What were you expecting?” 

Greg thought carefully and took a thoughtful nibble out of his brownie. “Not too sure really... an old man with a beard. One who had been at sea for many years and decided to be a hermit.”

  
“I do apologise if I let you down by not having a beard,” Mycroft said dryly. “I hope that I have not let you down with not being what you expected.”

Greg reached over and gently caressed his cheek, murmuring that there was flour on his cheek. Mycroft took in a deep breath, trying to use all of his self-control not to kiss him. He knew that it would be far too easy to do so. 

“I am really glad that you aren’t what I expected,” Greg murmured. “I can’t believe that I never met you before. I thought that I would have done so because of Sherlock.”

“Sherlock and I would go periods without talking to another,” Mycroft sighed. “He does not care much for me sticking his nose in his business and I tried to get involved as little as I could. I normally had my PA to communicate with Scotland Yard on my behalf.”

  
“I thought that you worked in the Department for Transport?” Greg asked confusion on his face. “Your job was a lot more than just that, wasn’t it? I know that there is confidentiality and everything, but it must have been something important if you were getting Sherlock onto cases.”

“It hardly matters now,” Mycroft said, shaking his head. “It was my old life and it is of little interest. I’m happier up here than I ever expected for myself in this life .”

“Would you ever go back to London?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft thought about the matter for a moment and shook his head. “I may visit and stay there from time to time for personal reasons,” he said, truthfully. “I am rather content up here. I don’t know if it is the right life for me but I am glad to have come across it. What about you?”

Greg hesitated for a moment, shrugging. “I don’t know for sure… it was an old life but I miss it. I cannot go back.” 

“Why not?” Mycroft asked. “I can imagine that it would be difficult being up here, it is considerably less exciting than being in Scotland Yard.”

“Less exciting is good,” Greg sighed, quickly changing the subject. “I’ll show you how to make bread and we can tidy up and I can drive you home.” 

* * *

“You are allowed to touch it, it is not going to bite you,” Greg chuckled. He watched Mycroft with an amused expression on his face as he poked at the dough instead of kneading it. He was covered in flour from head to, his apron was almost white from it. The bag had burst on him when was measuring out. “I’m sure that you’ve touched a lot worse things in the years.”

“I’ve also touched much nicer things,” Mycroft retorted. “What is the best way to do this?” 

Greg put down his mug on the counter and washed his hands again. He rolled up his sleeves and put flour on his hands before he started to knead the dough. “That is how you are meant to do it, instead of touching it like it is poison.” 

“Why not use a mixer?” Mycroft asked. “It would be much quicker.” 

He sprinkled more flour on the counter and stood behind Mycroft, taking his hands and started to guide them to kneed the dough, believing that it was the best way to teach him. “A mixer would be quicker but it is much better kneading it. It is more traditional and it is easier to put your love into the baking. It is rather therapeutic as well and good for stress.”

“If only I had this in my old job then perhaps I would have enjoyed it more,” Mycroft said. 

He reluctantly moved his hands away from Mycroft’s, watching him work the dough. “That’s it,” he smiled. “I’m going to make a baker out of you. You’ll learn how to decorate biscuits in no time. The pensioners thinking that the kids decorate them helped them sell.,” he teased. 

Mycroft flicked flour at him. “You will have to teach me how to decorate them properly then.” 

Greg picked up a bowl and placed the dough in it, covered it and left it to prove. “We can get this washing up done and then I can get you home. I can bring this bread over to you tomorrow once it’s baked.”

“I can stay for longer...if you would like me to,” Mycroft said, suddenly becoming rather shy. “I need to give you something.”

“What’s that?” Greg asked, wiping his hands on his apron. 

  
“I took something from you last night,” Mycroft murmured. “I want to give it back to you.”

“What’s that?”

He hardly uttered out the sentence before Mycroft suddenly kissed him. His hands cupping his cheeks as he kissed him tenderly. Greg quickly responded wrapped his arms around Mycroft pressing him against the counter.

“You know that you didn’t need to give that kiss back but I’m glad that you,” he murmured resting his forehead’s on Mycroft’s. “I don’t know if this is your new way of getting shortbread from me.”

  
“The shortbread is lovely and I suppose that I might of have had that as a motive,” Mycroft teased. “It’s only twenty per cent of the reason why I wanted to be in the bakery with you today.” 

Greg reluctantly pulled away and handed him a piece of shortbread, kissing his cheek as he gave it to him. He let out a chuckle as Mycroft moved away from the counter and turned around, revealing two floury handprints that were on his trousers. 

  
“You really do make a mess with flour,” Mycroft scolded him, the serious look on his face quickly melted away. He wiped away the dusting of flour that was on his cheek from Greg. “With me helping out, the place will be a lot tidier, I imagine.” 

Greg grinned and flicked flour from the counter at Mycroft. “ Go and eat your shortbread. It’s the only reason why you agreed to help out.”  
  


“That and I might rather fancy the baker,” Mycroft beamed, popping a bit of shortbread in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone has been doing well! I've been procrastinating a little from writing this by channelling my inner baker Greg! I've been feeling inspired by my fic and I've learned how to make bread and I did cinnamon rolls!
> 
> Thank you for your comments and kudos, they really help me to write!


	9. Chapter 9

Greg had the feeling that it was not going to be a good day from the moment that he cracked an eyelid open and looked at the time. He had the feeling as if there was a grey cloud that was floating above in his head that was threatening to storm and that a wet blanket was keeping him in bed, trapping him inside. 

Greg groaned as he saw the time; four in the morning. He pulled the duvet over his head and closed his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep. He debated about not opening the bakery doors and staying in bed for the rest of the day. He knew that too many people would talk and he would have customers knocking on his door if he didn’t open them. 

He didn’t have the opportunity to stay in bed, he could hear the noise of Crumble dragging her bowl across the floor. With great reluctance, he crawled out of bed and grabbed his walking stick. His leg didn’t seem to be a part of his body this morning. His movements were slow and clumbsy as if he was walking on ice. 

He swore under his breath as a pain went into his leg, a burning feeling that shot up and down. His leg was made of glass and it felt as if it was shattering. He must have overdone it the day before, he had worked in the bakery into the night working on a commission for a wedding cake for one of his regulars. He wanted to ensure that it was perfect and worked until eight that night making sure that it was just right, remaking the cakes twice as he wasn’t quite satisfied with them. 

He let out a sigh and sat down in the bed, rubbing the scarred area where the pain seemed to originate from. He debated about not opening the bakery doors that morning once more and going back to bed but decided against it and forced himself to get dressed. As much as he wanted to stay in bed, he knew that it was better to work and keep his mind off things. 

  
It was how he dealt with his problems, he had always done so. He found that if he put his mind to something, usually work, then he could avoid thinking. He focused on his exams in college and getting into the police after he wasn’t speaking to his dad after he was caught with a boy in his bedroom. He started working with Sherlock around the time the problems with his ex-wife started, taking on extra cases with him, the load increasing as he realised that divorce was the only option. He took up baking and focused on it immensely after the accident, it had been the only thing that helped to get him through it and climb out of the hole he found himself in. 

He somehow managed to find the motivation to get dressed and made his way to the bakery, his walking stick tucked away discreetly behind the back. He managed to hobble around the front of the shop without a problem; he was so used to acting like there was nothing wrong with his leg in the first place. He had gone three years without anyone commenting or noticed that there was something wrong or how he sometimes limped. 

The bakery was thankfully quieter than usual today, he believed that the heavy rain put the customers off unless they were determined to get a loaf of bread or a cake. He spent most of the day organising stock in the back and dealing with his orders. He worked on a risotto recipe for his section in the community newspaper for longer than he should have done, among other jobs that could be done sitting down. 

He hoped his limp would be gone by the time that Mycroft arrived in the bakery that afternoon. Mycroft had been coming over for baking lessons several times over the last week since their snog in the bakery. He had tried to teach Mycroft to bake and teach him how to decorate biscuits and cakes. They spent half the time flirting with another and had been snogging in the back like teenagers.

He hadn’t been able to invite Mycroft upstairs to his flat or progress to more than just kissing. He had little desire to rush things. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and had been cautious about rushing into something, he fell quickly and he fell hard. He didn’t want to appear too keen on Mycroft, he knew that it would only end up in heartbreak for him. His heart had been shattered enough times over the years, he wondered if it would be able to break even more. 

He looked at the time and sighed. He had ten minutes until Mycroft arrived at the bakery for his lesson on cake decorating. As much as he wanted to see Mycroft and had been looking forward to it, he wondered if he should cancel or not. 

  
He picked up his phone to call him or send a message but decided against it, placing it on the table with a sigh. He knew that it was too late to tell him not to come, he was probably driving and was more than halfway there. It would be rude to send him home after driving all this way just because he was in a bad mood and his leg was acting up. He hoped that some company would do him some good. 

  
He would have to tell Mycroft eventually about his leg, he was going to find out sooner or later. He doubted that it would be enough to put Mycroft off him but there was still that worry. A worry that Mycroft would see him as damaged and would look at him with pity. It was what Greg hated and tried to avoid since he took over the bakery three years ago. 

He knew that deep down that Mycroft wouldn’t be phased by his leg or wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow at it. He was the brother of Sherlock Holmes and had to deal with his horrific experiments and potential poisonings, or Sherlock planning out his murder if he had taken the last chocolate digestive. Greg was the same, nothing phased or surprised him these days after being in the police for over twenty years. He had seen it all; gruesome crime scenes that made horror films look tame; people being killed, having to help fish Sherlock Holmes out of the Thames on more than one occasion. He knew that little could surprise Mycroft but he still worried. 

  
He lifted his head from his laptop when he heard a soft ringing of the bell as the door opened. Crumble moved from her perch by the windowsill, coming alive at the sight of Mycroft and wrapped herself around his ankles. She let out a loud purr that seemed unlikely to come out of a cat her size. 

“How are you?” Mycroft asked, walking over to him and kissing his cheek. “I’ve been looking forward to this baking lesson all morning.”

He took off wet his coat and hung it by the door. The hair was plastered to the front of his head from the rain, his cheeks were pink from being attacked by the rain. “Fancy a cuppa?” Greg asked, standing up and holding onto the table for balance. 

He waited until Mycroft had his attention focused on Crumble before he moved to the counter, trying his best to move smoothly and without a limp. He used the counter to support himself, not wanting weakness to show. 

“I would love one,” Mycroft replied with a gentle smile. He sat down and Crumble moved onto his lap, kneading his paws on his knee, purring constantly to herself. Mycroft instantly ran his fingers along her head and scratched her ears, making her purrs come out louder. “How’s business been today?” 

  
Greg smiled to himself as he started to make tea, he wondered if it was a good sign if his cat liked Mycroft. It had to mean something as she was a rather antisocial cat the best of the time. “ Quiet,” Greg said. “I think that the rain is keeping everyone in today. I can’t blame them. I would be staying in bed if I could.” 

He looked at the distance between the counter and the table, holding back his sigh as he realised that he couldn’t take two mugs without spilling something. 

“Let me take them,” Mycroft said, placing a disgruntled Crumble to the side of the chair and walked to the counter. “I don’t want you slipping, some customers brought the rain in with them. I can go over the floor with a mop if you would like.”   
  


Greg shook his head and tried to shoo Mycroft away with little success. He ignored the sharp pain that ran up his leg, his body not thrilled with him being on his feet today apparently. “Go and sit down, I can bring them over.”   
  


He looked out of the window, staring into the street and he could get a glimpse of the hills and the sea from his window. He often wondered what was beyond the town, the hills and the sea, and often found himself picturing what was there. The sea seemed to be never ending on the island and the hills seemed to stretch out until the end of the earth. He wondered if it was just eternity. He had no idea what it would look like or be but he knew that it would be beautiful. 

He sighed and looked over at Mycroft, who had already taken the cups over for him without a word and placed them on the table. “I could have done it on my own.”

“I wanted to help,” Mycroft said sincerely. “You are having problems with your leg. I saw you grabbing onto the counter as you walked over and I can see a walking stick in the bakery.”

“How did you see that?” Greg asked, annoyed that his efforts to hide his problem hadn’t worked. “No one else has noticed.”

“I saw your reflection in the window when I bent down to pet Crumble,” Mycroft answered with a shrug. “I knew that you had problems with your leg since I’ve first met you. You walk with a limp even if you try to hide it and do a good job with it and I could tell with the imprints you left on the sand when we walked on the beach together.”

Greg gripped the counter hard in the attempt to balance himself, feeling as if the world around him had just been shaken underneath his legs. The illusion, the version of him that he had created since he had moved into the bakery had seemed to shatter, leaving the man who he was in London in the bakery. 

  
“How did you know?” Greg asked, rather lamely. He sighed when he realised that he was talking to Holmes. He knew that there was little point in keeping something a secret or information away from one, they were going to find out. “You did the deduction thing, didn’t you?” 

“The deduction thing?” Mycroft asked, amused. “I did.”

  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Greg asked, shaking his head with a sigh. “The moment that people find out, they want to know the story about it.”

Mycroft stirred sugar into his tea and didn’t look at Greg. “I’ve got several scars with good stories behind them, I assume that you do as well. I can say that I did have some interesting moments in my life before I moved up here. I do not care much for talking about them either. I did come here to learn how to ice biscuits properly and flirt with you.”

Greg blinked and shifted from one foot to the other, not quite sure what to say. He inspected Mycroft’s face for a moment, trying to find a look of pity but there was just a sincere smile on his face, one that made Greg feel at ease. It felt like the first time in years. “So everything is fine?”

  
“What did you expect me to do?” Mycroft asked, shaking his head in amusement. “I can assure you that nothing can surprise me, I am related to Sherlock Holmes after all. I know that you have a past and I have one myself, as far as I’m concerned the only thing that matters is now.”

Greg didn’t say anything for a moment and let out a sigh of relief, feeling as if he had a weight lifted from him. He had been caring for it so long that he forgot what he felt without it. “I can talk about it one day...not now.”

“I understand,” Mycroft said. “I think that right now you need to sit down and drink your tea before it gets cold. I’ve not started flirting with you yet and I was meant to start a while ago.”

Greg went over to the table with a grin.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! Hopefully, this is an alright chapter! I didn't have the best day yesterday or today and I thought that the best thing to do is to write! I wrote a part of it when I was unable to sleep at one in the morning today and I'm just glad it's finished even if it's not too brilliant.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter yesterday but wasn't too pleased with it, I never am after writing late at night and uploading. I ended up writing more though, hopefully, it makes up for any confusion!

With his bottom lip between his teeth, Mycroft tried to make a flower on the cake that he was trying to decorate, his hands wobbling as he tried to control the piping bag. He had practised several times on baking parchment with Greg’s instruction but he had found it more difficult when it came to the actual cake. 

“This is impossible,” Mycroft sighed, throwing his piping bag down in defeat once he made a flower on the cake, one that looked as if it had been trampled on. “I don’t know how you manage to do it.”

Greg expertly managed to ice a beautiful looking rose on a cupcake with one hand. It was the tenth one that he had decorated in the space of ten minutes, while Mycroft had struggled to decorate one and it looked awful. “It takes time,” he said. “You need to stop treating that piping bag as if it is going to attack you.”

He picked up several of the cakes plain cupcakes that were on the side that Mycroft was meant to decorate and quickly iced them and iced flowers on them, placing them into a large box for the birthday that they were going to. 

“I don’t think that I will ever get the hang of this,” Mycroft sighed, wiping his hands on his flour-covered apron. 

“You just need more practice,” Greg reassured him for what felt like the hundredth time since they started to decorate cakes together. “I can assure you that it took me at least a month to decorate cakes that didn’t look as if school children had done them. We can say that your cakes were done by the decoration and it will get the pensioners to buy them.” 

“How did you get so good at baking?” Mycroft asked, deciding that it was best to allow Greg to decorate the cakes and just to watch him. “How did you get into baking? I can’t imagine that Scotland Yard had cake sales that often. It is a big jump from being a Detective Inspector to being a baker. You don’t have to give me all the details.”

Greg nodded as he cleared up the counter and pulled out another cake that he had to decorate, one for a wedding anniversary. A large chocolate cake that Mycroft knew that it would taste as wonderful as it smelt and looked, he could feel the pounds creeping up on him just from a sniff. He had licked the spoon from the ganache when Greg had offered it to him earlier on that afternoon. 

“I worked here when I was a teenager and you can imagine how impressed I was at the time, being up in the middle of nowhere when my friends were outgoing to parties, going to concerts and being with girls,” he said, filling up his piping bag. “ I moaned for the first day I was here especially as I was stuck on the dishes but my auntie got me started on making shortbread and I was just obsessed with baking ever since. It was a good stress relief from work and I needed to have that outlet after being in the police.”

Mycroft nodded, fascinated as he watched Greg write down the words ‘Happy anniversary,’ in the icing in his best handwriting, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to write out his initials with icing. “Fencing was mine when I was in university, drama society as well,” he said. “I did have to stop once I left, work became rather demanding and Sherlock...his temptations started when I just left.”   
  


“There is a theatre group here if you are interested,” Greg said. “I can ask the woman who runs it, they are always looking for new members.”

Mycroft considered if for a moment and shook his head, realising that those days were quite possibly behind him but it did sound tempting. He didn’t have to worry so much about Sherlock these days and he wasn’t spending every moment at his desk these days. “I’d rather hear about your baking.”

Greg let out an amused noise. “What else is there for me to tell you?” he asked, his brow wrinkled up in concentration as he carefully wrote out the names of the couple on the cake. “I ended up taking a few classes and the baking helped after my accident. It was the thing that helped me get out of bed and it made me happy, silly as it sounds. It just made sense taking over the bakery, I had my happiest times up here.”

“I don’t think that it is silly at all,” Mycroft said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’m glad that you have an outlet and that baking brings that happiness to you. I never really had anything like it when I was in London.”

“You can cut those up and place them on the cake,” Greg said, handing Mycroft a box of local berries and a knife. “What did you do to relax then?”

“I never had the time to do it,” Mycroft said, grimacing slightly as he carefully cut strawberries. “I was always far too busy to do it.” 

“You must have had some time at least,” Greg said, with a raised eyebrow. “The Department of Transport can’t be that busy.”   
  


He carefully placed the strawberries on the cake, trying to ensure that they were put on perfectly and were not put on squint and spoiled the look of the cake.“You would be surprised,” Mycroft snorted. 

“There must have been something that you did for fun and on your days off,” Greg stated.

“I didn’t get many of those either," Mycroft replied. "I read a lot. I enjoy classic cinema and going to the theatre- not pantomime or musicals though, the opera occasionally. I usually went to museums on a rare day off but I mostly would just be able to squeeze in some time to write or read in my limited time off."  


  
“What were you doing then?” Greg asked. “You make it sound as if you were running the whole bloody country!”

“I only had a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft corrected him. 

Greg snorted and shook his head, with an eyebrow raised he spoke. “You were running the whole country, weren’t you? I know that in Holmes speak that ‘a minor position,’ means that you were running the show and dealing with the Prime Minister at least. I know that there are details that you can't tell me but I can tell that you were on first name terms with the Queen and you had tea with her at least once.”

“On several occasions but we often had lunch together and with the corgis as well,” Mycroft said, taking pleasure in the expression on Greg’s face. “I do have to admit that you are a much better baker than the staff in the Palace. I know that she would adore your shortbread.”

  
Greg’s ears went pink and he swatted Mycroft’s shoulder. “You are just saying that.”

  
“I’m not,” Mycroft said, pressing a kiss to Greg’s cheek. “You are one of the most marvellous bakers. Discovering your baking has been one of the greatest pleasures since I have arrived in the highlands.”

“You are just saying that,” Greg said, rolling his eyes, happily accepting the kiss from Mycroft and returning it. “You are overly sweet, I don’t know if you are trying to get more shortbread. You can help yourself to the box in the back.”

Mycroft kissed him before he helped himself to Highlander shortbread, handing Greg several biscuits. “I don’t know how you manage to make shortbread. It is the most wonderful shortbread that I have ever had.” 

  
“You are flattering me too much,” Greg said, shaking his head in amusement. “I don’t want my head to get too big, I won’t be able to fit through the bakery doors with the way that you are going. It is just an old family recipe with a lot of tweaking to make sure that it is perfect. The amount of sugar that I put in probably helps to make it good.”

  
“You are an amazing baker,” Mycroft smiled. “ I can’t wait to see what you are making for dinner. I know that it will be much more wonderful than what we had at the cottage. I am still embarrassed about the beans on toast.”

“Don’t be,” Greg said, popping a piece of shortbread in his mouth. “I did admittedly consider getting a takeaway. You will have plenty of time to try my cooking.”

“Will I now?” Mycroft beamed. “My compliments must have done the trick if you aren’t put off me after my disastrous attempt at cooking.” 

  
“You are far too lovely for me to let you go,” Greg grinned.

* * *

It had been such a long time before he had someone in his flat for more than just a visit. He hadn’t brought anyone home in years. He had done his best to tidy up the flat for Mycroft, stashing away his spare leg and the walking sticks along with the other clutter, unsure how much Mycroft should see. 

  
He had been on a few dates since he lost his leg when he was back in London but they had not gone anywhere. His mum set him up with women that she knew as if he was a teenager again, worried that he was becoming a hermit after the divorce and the accident. He hadn’t clicked with any of the women his mum set up with him and decided to give updating, it was much easier than telling her that he clicked more with blokes and it saved her from arranging him a date with her hairdresser. 

He knew that Mycroft wouldn’t be scared off by seeing a prosthetic leg but the worry was still there. He knew that Mycroft was alright with it in theory but there was a chance that he would react differently when it came to the reality of it. 

He couldn’t understand why a posh bloke like Mycroft Holmes would be interested in him, it seemed to be good to be true. It had been years since he had found a bloke that he had properly fancied, let alone a bloke that was his type who fancied him back. 

Mycroft was instantly drawn to the bookshelf once he had been invited upstairs, only glimpsing at the picture of him when he had first come out of the rehabilitation clinic, standing with his parents by the door with his new prosthetic and walking stick. It was an odd choice for a family photo but he had taken it to keep his mum happy, she always had a thing for taking photos. 

  
“You’ve got a copy of Maurice,” Mycroft said with a grin. “It is a favourite book of mine and I did rather like the film as well.”

“Is that Holmes speak for fancying Hugh Grant?” Greg teased. “I always did like him when I was younger. I do like Colin Firth as well but I always had more of a thing for rock stars when I was younger.”

  
“Bowie?” 

  
“Among others,” Greg grinned. “I’ve got something that is going to put a smile on your face after dinner.” 

  
“What’s that?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow. 

  
“I’ve got an apple crumble,” Greg said. 

  
“You know the way into my heart,” Mycroft smiled. “They do say that the best way into a man’s heart is through his stomach and you are doing rather well if you don’t mind me saying.”

  
Greg’s ears went pink. He did not think that it was possible to smile so much.

  
He had little idea why he had been worried about having Mycroft around for dinner, any worries they had were soon dissolved after several glasses of wine and Indian takeaway. They were curled up on the sofa with a bowl of ice cream and apple crumble. The wine had made the edges fuzzy and removed any remaining traces of nerves that Greg had. 

Mycroft’s leg nudged his prosthetic by accident, a bundle of nerves had formed in Greg’s stomach and he had expected Mycroft to react; only to find out that Mycroft hardly batted an eyelid. His hand had brushed against it as his hand had moved up his thigh as they kissed on the sofa like teenagers. Greg was not sure if it was from the wine or just because of Mycroft. 

There was something about Mycroft which was as intoxicating as wine; he hadn’t felt this young in years. It felt impossible to keep his hands off him as they kissed, and they snogged on the sofa, he found himself quickly working on Mycroft’s buttons.

  
“What’s this from?” Greg asked, running his fingers across several scars on Mycroft’s abdomen. One looked as if it was a bullet scar, an ugly looking thing that looked as if it didn’t belong on Mycroft’s body, not for a man who looked as if he belonged behind a desk. “Did someone shoot you?”

  
“I did have an interesting life before you,” Mycroft hummed, his finger’s tangling in Greg’s hair. “I have several interesting scars with good stories behind them. Not too many, less than my brother- leg work was not my forte.”

“I would love to hear all of them,” Greg grinned. “There is so much that I would like to know about you. You must have so many interesting stories...only if you want to tell me.” 

  
“I have never been thought of as being interesting before,” Mycroft said. “I am not sure if the wine has gone to your head.”

Greg pressed a kiss to the scar, carefully tracing his fingers across them. “Quite possibly but I would snog you senselessly without it as well,” Greg said with a devilish grin. 

He didn’t want Mycroft to leave his flat that night, he would have done anything to keep him there with him for the night. If he could keep the two of them in his flat forever, Greg would have done so. He would have happily gone back in time if it was possible to stop himself from changing his mind. He had enjoyed himself before and he couldn't understand why he had wanted to stop, suddenly uncomfortable and insecure. Mycroft seemed to make the matter worse, he had checked to see if he was alright and started to put on his shirt without a complaint, not even seeming bothered about suddenly stopping. He briefly wondered if he would feel less guilty about it if Mycroft had been annoyed or at least put off about it.  


"It's getting rather late and I don't want you to stay up for my sake," Mycroft murmured. "I assume that you've been up since four this morning and I can tell that you were working late last night. You'll be needing to get some sleep, Crumble looks as if she needs her bed as well," he said, nodding in the direction of the sleeping cat on the armchair. 

  
“I’m sorry,” Greg murmured, leaning against the wall as he watched Mycroft button up his shirt and put on his jacket. “I’ve spoiled things haven’t I?”

Mycroft removed the imaginary wrinkles from his shirt that somehow still managed to be free of creases despite their activities on the sofa. He looked up at Greg with a puzzled expression on his face. “ What makes you think that?” he asked. 

“I do fancy you,” Greg tried to explain, stumbling over his words. “It’s not that I don’t and I do want you...I just can’t at the moment.”   
  


“I am not going to hold anything against you for changing your mind,” Mycroft said, trying to reassure him. “I am not offended in the slightest.” 

Greg shuffled on his feet and stared at the bookshelf in the attempt to avoid looking at Mycroft. He sighed and shook his head at himself, scolding himself for ruining the night. He had been doing fine before and he had enjoyed himself until he just suddenly didn’t any more. He didn’t know if it was the pain that had suddenly formed in his leg, he had been up late the evening before working on orders for the bakery or it was phantom limb pain again. 

  
He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t because of the bundle of nerves that were because of Mycroft. He knew that Mycroft didn’t care that he was incomplete and he knew that Mycroft had his own scars but he wasn’t quite ready for some reason. He tried to tell himself that it was because it had been so long since he was with someone and he hadn’t wanted to mess things up with Mycroft, he really did like him and was wanting to make things work. 

  
“I’m sorry, “ Greg sighed. “It’s just been a while...not just because of my leg, I’m divorced.”

“I have not been in a relationship after a few disastrous attempts of ones when I was in my twenties and I am rather out of practice. I hope that you don’t mind,” Mycroft said.

  
“Can’t understand why,” Greg said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are utterly gorgeous.”

  
“I was too busy running the country to have one,” Mycroft said with a shrug. “ I think that you are the only one to think so. I’ve been called many things but not that.”

He walked over to Greg and gave him a peck on the lips. “I will call you in the morning,” he said. “Beacon will be wondering where I am and she will think that I have abandoned her. Do you have a number for a taxi?“

“I’ll phone one for you.”

“I’ll wait with you outside,” Greg said, putting on his coat in the attempt to protect himself from the strong winds once he had phoned Mycroft a taxi. He adjusted his trouser leg and sighed, speaking before Mycroft insisted that he stay in like the gentleman that he was. “I need some air and to stretch my legs.”

Mycroft nodded, a concerned expression flashed upon his face for a moment as he fastened up his up coat and put his leather gloves on. Greg examined the look, trying to find a trace of pity on his face, relieved to find nothing. 

  
He followed Mycroft outside and shuffled awkwardly on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets, suddenly unsure what to do or say to him. “I am sorry about earlier...I did have a good time with you,” he murmured. 

“I had a good time with you as well,” Mycroft said with a smile. 

  
Greg let out a heavy sigh and shoved his hands deeper in his packers to protect them from the chilling wind, he wondered if he would disappear into them if he put his hands in there deep enough. “I should explain, I feel absolutely stupid for what happened and spoiling it.”

Mycroft shook his head, kindness was in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me and I didn’t expect anything. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I had a lovely time with you and I would like to do it again.”

  
He felt as if he was a teenager again, completely new to the world of dating and unsure of the rules, or what on earth that he was supposed to do. He didn’t feel like himself, unsure of who he was without the illusion of himself that he had made once he had taken up the bakery. He was a hollow man and he knew that he would have to build up his sense of self from the dust once more.

“You can come over to the bakery tomorrow for a lesson if you want,” Greg offered. “I’m away in the morning for an appointment in Inverness but I am free in the afternoon.”

“I was thinking about going there tomorrow,” Mycroft said, smiling a little. “I wanted to look at the museum and do a lot of people watching. It is for my book and I’m needing some inspiration. I might end up bumping into you.”

“If you are there and if you fancy it, I can accidentally bump into you at this really good restaurant that I know of,” Greg smirked. 

  
“Only if you are willing for me to stumble across in Inverness and allow me to buy you a drink,” Mycroft grinned. 

“More than willing,” Greg beamed. 

They shared a kiss before the taxi arrived, a gentle and chaste kiss that was somewhat perfect. He wanted to send the taxi away once it arrived to pick up Mycroft, not wanting to be away from him for a moment, almost fearing that a part of him would fade away without him.

He waved to Mycroft as the taxi drove off down the road, becoming smaller and smaller, fading away into the distance. The night suddenly felt colder once he lost sight of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and the comments! They mean a lot to me and hopefully this chapter was alright! I was wanting to write a bit of a lighter chapter, partly to cheer myself up and before I start writing about Greg and Mycroft's pasts and life before coming to the highlands- still trying to figure out what happened with them admittedly but it will be fun to explore!


	11. Chapter 11

Greg tried to pull down the bottom of his shorts to cover his leg, a nervous habit that he had developed over the years. He put on his shorts for the occasion, it made it easier for his meetings with his prosthetist and the occasional physiotherapy session that he went to, especially when he was getting new sockets fitted or having it adjusted. 

  
He felt less self-conscious than he normally did when he was in the hospital; perhaps it was because he was one of the healthier looking patients and a good bit younger than some of the others. He had been in a ward with pensioners with hip and knee replacements before he got moved into his own room and into a private hospital thanks to Sherlock’s apparent connections. He knew that everyone was wrapped up in their own lives in the hospital and the doctors and nurses had seen a lot worse or far more interesting patients than him. No one knew who he was and there was little reason to talk unlike at home. 

He pulled out his phone and sighed, having ten minutes to kill until his appointment. He decided to go to the canteen, get himself a coffee in the attempt to warm himself up. He placed his rucksack with nicer clothes over his shoulder as he walked the caffeine, thinking about where he would supposedly ‘bump,’ into Mycroft and take him to lunch. 

He ordered himself a cappuccino and some shortbread and sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the corner of the canteen. He scrolled on his phone trying to pick a restaurant to take Mycroft, not sure if he fancied going to a French restaurant or whatever- he would have to do take him somewhere posh, knowing that Mycroft had lunch with the Queen and probably been to all the swanky London clubs and restaurants. 

“What do you tell kids when they ask about your leg?”

Greg lifted his head from his phone once he realised that the question was directed to him, the accent thick. He looked to the table across from him to find a broad, bearded man sitting there, a prosthetic on his right leg, his socks were decorated with a shark that made it look that it was taken a bite out of them. 

“What do you mean?” Greg asked. 

The man let out a laugh and shook his head, amused at the confused look on Greg’s face. “You’ve never had a brain stare at your leg and want to know the story about it?” he asked, moving to sit at Greg’s table uninvited once he had shaken his head to his question. 

  
“What do you tell them?” Greg asked, not quite sure what he was meant to say, he usually avoided conversations or even bringing attention to his leg unless he was in the hospital. 

  
“The story changes each time,” he laughed mostly to himself. “It was that I was involved in a fight against the Loch Ness Monster the other day. I had discovered Nessie and the two of us had a fight and she ended up biting my leg off. I’ve fought sharks, not eaten my vegetables, anything that you can think of. You come up with a few good ones, you have to after not having a right leg for ten years.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg said. 

The man shook his head, almost amused by his apology. “Don’t be. How long have you been part robot? That’s what my kids call me.” 

“Four years,” Greg replied. 

“I had at least twenty different stories by then about how it came off, much more exciting ones than how it actually happened,” he said. “You need to come up with a few of them by the next time that I see you in here. I’m Andy by the way.”

“Greg,” he said, shaking the offered hand that was offered to him. “Mind if I steal the Nessie story? It’s much more exciting than my sister telling my niece that my leg ‘dropped off,’ because I was being silly and not listening to mummy.”

“Go for it,” Andy said, with a laugh. “I know that this is a bit of a stretch and I’ve just met you but do you like football?” 

“I watch it on the telly, mostly,” Greg said, upon realising what Andy he was meaning, he spoke again. “I used to play it when I was younger and used to do a bit of five-aside with the lads at work before…” he said, nodding in the direction of his leg, tapping it with his fingers. 

“I’ve got some mates and we have a kick on a Sunday and we go to the pub after, you are free to join us if you want to,” he said. “We’ve always got a spot on the team and even if you can’t play, you can hang on the sidelines with Steve and keep him company, he’s still trying to get to grips with his legs. People are usually a bit funny about playing with blokes with missing bits and pieces and we thought that we would start our own group.” 

He handed Greg a piece of paper with a phone number and the time and location of where the group met up before he could even make up his mind or ask any questions about it. Greg found himself nodding and accepting the piece of paper, thanking Andy for it before he left for his appointment. 

“I want to have a good story about your leg the next time that I see you,” Andy called out as Greg walked for his appointment. He suddenly felt considerably younger and suddenly more confident that he had done in years at the prospect of going to the park and playing football, he had missed it more than he thought.

* * *

“Fancy bumping into you here,” Mycroft smiled as Greg approached his table in the cafe. He stood up from the table and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “It was a rather good job that I had ordered two coffees and two croissants.”

“Would have been a right shame if I didn’t just happen to be in the area,” Greg grinned, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek and removing his jacket. “I’ve not had a croissant from here in a while, they have the best ones.”

“I wasn’t too sure what you would have liked, I went with an almond and a butter one,” Mycroft said. “I went with a cappuccino for you, I wasn’t too sure what you would have liked, I wasn’t sure what was suitable for a baker like yourself, you might be rather particular about things. I can order you something else if you want.”

  
“You don’t need to do that, it’s perfect,” Greg said, giving Mycroft a reassuring smile. “Want to do half and half? The croissants here are just divine, I’ve not been able to make them half as good.”   
  


He split the croissants in half and put on them on the plate, flakes of pastry crumbled all over the plates. The smell of them instantly made Greg hungry, he hadn’t had an appetite at breakfast before he drove to his appointment. He took a bite, flakes of pastry covering the plate, letting out a small moan of pleasure out of it. It had been ages since he had a good croissant and he would never be able to make them himself. 

“How was the museum?” Greg asked. “I’ve not actually been to the museum, I’ve been too busy in my bakery to go.”

“It was interesting,” Mycroft said, humming slightly as he had nibbled at the croissant. “There are some fascinating sections on the Jacobites and the silver trade. I suppose that the museums in Edinburgh would be fascinating. I’m hoping to make my way around them.”

“You’ll need a day or two just for the National Museum in Edinburgh,” Greg smiled. “It’s like the British Museum, you can spend hours in the place and not even be a quarter of the way through. The botanical gardens here are lovely, I’ll take you there when it’s better weather out there. ” 

“Are you now?” Mycroft said with a raised eyebrow. 

“If that is alright with you?” Greg asked, uncertainty in his voice, suddenly not as confident as he was normally. “I know that it is a bit presumptuous...I thought that you would enjoy it at least.”

  
Mycroft let out an amused noise, giving Greg a rather sweet smile, his hand reaching out across the table covering Greg’s with it. “ I would love it if you took me.” 

Greg tangled his fingers in Mycroft’s and smiled to himself mostly. It had been so long that he had been at ease with another person, feeling almost like the person who he used to be in London before all of the damage happened. “You know that I really do like you, Myc,” he murmured. “You are different from most people.”

“Different in a good way?” Mycroft asked. “ Normally when someone is different, or when it has been to describe me, it has never been used in a positive manner.” 

“Different in a good way,” Greg said, reassuringly. “I can’t put my finger on it exactly but there is something there. I’m comfortable with you and it is a shame that we didn’t meet in London. It’s frustrating that our worlds were so close together in London but they somehow never collided with another.”

“You would have thought that they would with my brother,” Mycroft said thoughtfully, nibbling his croissant. “There must have been so many times where we could have possibly met. I don’t think that you would care much for me when I was in London. I was a different person back then.”

  
“So was I,” Greg said, sipping at his coffee. “I would have fancied you a ridiculous amount back then regardless. Are you a better version of yourself now since you’ve left London?” 

“I’m happier,” Mycroft replied after a long moment of thought. “I was never that happy in London- I didn’t have you in my life, of course.”

“A great reason to be miserable,” Greg winked. “ What else?”

  
“I was stuck in a demanding office job.” 

  
“You mean controlling the country?” Greg teased in a low voice, nudging Mycroft’s foot with his good leg. 

  
Mycroft faltered. “There were moments when it was interesting and I was only in a minor position in the government. What about you?” 

“Am I happier?” Greg asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Mycroft nodded encouragingly. 

“I’ve got you, so that’s something,” Greg said after a moment of thought, not quite sure of the answer himself. “I do miss being a police officer and having more than three and a half-limbs...I’m not that person any more.”

“You are allowed to miss the person that you once were,” Mycroft replied, his fingers were somehow wrapped up in Greg’s, Greg was not sure when he had linked their fingers together again but he didn’t bother to move them. 

  
“Do you ?” Greg asked. 

  
“I never had the chance to be who I wanted to be before,” Mycroft said with a shrug. “I am in the process of trying to figure it out. I’ve always put my brother...my work first.”

Greg didn’t say anything for several long moments, unable to gather his thoughts together. He did miss who he once was but he wondered if he was really that truly happy in London and he had created an illusion of himself. He hadn’t been the same after the accident, it was hard to be. 

.He hadn’t been the same person throughout the years and he found himself constantly changing instead of being static. He had changed since he had joined the police, cases had changed him for the better or worse. He was a different person each time he fell in love and through heartbreak. He had become a different person over the years, marked by time and through experience.

  
He wondered if it was the essence of being human; constantly evolving and changing to avoid becoming stuck in the past. Almost a way to survive. He wondered if his old self would be happy in this new life that he had chosen; he wasn’t too sure just yet. 

“I’ve been invited to play football when I was in the canteen before my appointment,” he said once he realised that he hadn’t spoken in some time. “I’m thinking about going, I’ve not played...since before, you know.”

  
“I think that it will be good for you,” Mycroft smiled encouragingly. “Are you any good at football?”

  
“Used to,” Greg shrugged, unsure. 

  
“You kicked with your right foot, didn’t you?” Mycroft asked. “You are right-handed and I assume you kicked with your right. You always favourite it.”   
  


“I should hope so as it’s my only one,” Greg said dryly.

  
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft quickly replied. 

  
Greg cleared this throat and shook his head, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “ I did, I wasn’t too good with my left foot even when I had it.”

  
Mycroft noticeably relaxed, he had been tense before and a worried expression on his face, concerned that he had said the wrong thing. He didn’t want Mycroft to be that way around him, not ever. It was a reason why he had liked him in the first place; he made him feel at ease and didn’t walk on eggshells around him, unsure what to say. It happened so much in London and it had ended a few of his friendships, becoming too different for other people that it made things awkward. 

  
“I’m thinking about going,” Greg said, smiling slightly. “I talked to the prosthetist and physiotherapist about it. “

  
“About what?” Mycroft asked, a puzzled expression on his leg. 

  
“The likelihood of accidentally throwing my leg off when I do an amazing penalty kick,” Greg said with a smile, realising that it was the first time that he had made a joke about his leg, momentarily feeling at ease about it “I used to be known for them in the Scotland Yard team.”

“I will be impressed if you do,” Mycroft smiled. “I don’t care much for football admittedly but I would like to see you play.” 

* * *

He knew that it shouldn’t be that difficult. He knew that it wasn’t that difficult, it was only twenty steps there and back and he would be in the safety of his flat. He had changed the bin countless times and it had never been that difficult. He looked at the bin, he knew that he would have to empty it. He sighed and knew there was little point in changing his clothes just to put the bin out.

He ran his fingers through his hair and told himself off, fighting the urge to get out of his shorts that he lounged about in the flat on his days off and once he had closed the bakery. He knew that it took much more effort and time to change than to empty the bin. It was only twenty steps there and back. 

He knew that he would have to empty it, he would miss the collection if he wasted any more time. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to summon up his courage, he was a police officer in an old life and he had never worried about something as silly as the neighbours looking at his leg.

  
He doubted that anyone would give him any attention. He couldn’t see anyone in the street and there were only seagulls squawking and fighting among another in the streets. He knew that he had to do it even if it felt so impossible. He wasn’t going to move on if he couldn’t change a bin without hiding away. 

He sighed and took out the bag from the bin, slowly making his way down the stairs. He peaked out the door and after not seeing anyone there; he took a deep breath and stepped out. 

  
The seagulls didn’t even look up when he had opened up the door, still squawking among themselves, seeming more occupied with the dropped chips that were left on the street. He let out a breath that he wasn’t aware that he had been holding, knowing that he could do this. 

He took the short walk to the bins; twenty steps there and back. Each step got easier and he could hardly understand why he had been so worried about it. It wasn’t as if the seagulls would care about his leg, he knew that they would be much more interested in the bin bags than him. 

With his new burst of confidence, he took ten more steps to the bakery window, inspecting it. He knew that he could do with a new display; it looked rather old and plain. It had been a few weeks since he had made a display cake for the front window, it would be something that he would have to work on that afternoon, the ideas flooding his head. 

He could hear the children before he could see them. He caught a glimpse of Mrs Rowe’s grandchildren running up the road, she would be behind them. Their clothes grass stained and covered in sand. They usually visited the bakery during the weekend, spreading crumbs on the floor and chocolate cake smeared on their faces. 

They ran up to the window and pressed their faces against it, peering in and trying to see the cakes. He quickly found a sticky hand tugging at his trousers, demands for chocolate cake and brownie edges were made before Greg could even say hello. 

“Are you a pirate?” Jamie asked, proudly showing off a badge that said that he was eight that day. 

“What?” Greg asked, a confused expression on his face. “What makes you think that?” 

“You have a metal leg,” Jamie said as if Greg had asked a stupid question. “Pirates have ones made out of wood.”

“We’ve been learning about pirates,” Mavis asked, her hair looking more wild than usual due to the sea air. “Granny got us a book on them from the library! Pirates are cool, it would make you even cooler. We’ve never met a pirate before.”

Greg blinked, not sure what to say. He hadn’t been thought of as being cool before, rarely having a reaction to his leg which wasn’t one of pity. He could hear Mrs Rowe calling the children, jogging slightly as she caught up to them, she caught a glimpse off his leg and pulled a face, quickly telling the children not to call him a pirate. 

“I’m not a pirate,” Greg said, the corner of his lips twitching upwards. “ I forgot to feed Crumble one morning and she decided to bite my leg off and eat it.”

He took delight in the reactions of the children, horrified screams mixed in with giggling when they saw Crumble at the window, stretched out and lazily watching seagulls from her perch. 

“I’m so sorry about them, Greg,” Mrs Rowe said, taking a great interest in his leg but pretending not to do so, her eyes were focused on his forehead. 

  
“Don’t be,” Greg said with a shrug. “It’s kids for you. “

He felt a tug at his hand, bending down so that Jamie could whisper in his ear, a request for cake. “Just because if it is your birthday,” he grinned. “ I better give you some cake, I don’t want you two gnawing at my other leg if you don’t get fed.”

He opened up the bakery door and let the children and Mrs Rowe walk in front of him. He smiled to himself, almost rather impressed with his story, wishing that the real reason for losing his leg was as simple as not feeding a cat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this chapter sooner than I expected, had a feeling something was going to prevent me from writing for some reason so I thought that I would get it written when I'm still able to write even if it's nearly two in the morning and I'm unable to sleep. I also wanted to give Greg some happiness in this chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos!


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft frowned at his inbox and sighed once he read the email. He closed his laptop and decided to make a cup of tea, trying to clear his head and make up his mind before he could reply to the email. 

He procrastinated from opening his laptop again by allowing Bea to sit on top of it for her afternoon nap. He had misplaced his phone on his desk and did not bother trying to retrieve it when he found it under Bea’s tail, it would be rude to bother her when he was sleeping. 

He didn’t know how he would reply to the email; he believed that it would have been easier to reply to months ago. He decided to work on the story that he had started to conjure up on one of his morning walks along the beach and in the woodland. He hardly knew what he wanted to write about just yet but he hoped that it would come to him soon. He only knew that it would be set in the highlands and he found himself captivated by nature, the history around him and had taken an interest in Scottish folklore recently. 

He took a long walk along the beach and decided to clear up the litter that had been washed up by the waves that lazily crawled over to the shore. He smiled to himself as he speared crisp packets and placed them in his bag of rubbish, he knew that his old colleagues, especially Anthea would be surprised to know what he was doing, surprised that he even knew how to use a litter picker. 

He knew that they would be just as surprised as he was that he enjoyed living in the highland when London, his country, was his whole life until recently. They had never expected him to ever retire, he had never expected that he would ever do so or want to do so. It was never a possibility for him in his old life; fearing and knowing that he would get horrifically bored if he didn’t have his work. 

  
He had been pleasantly surprised that he was rarely bored in his retirement, finding out that he enjoyed it. He still kept his brain active enough, Anthea asking him for his advice on a situation even though she was more than capable to solve them and Mycroft fully believed that she was. They spent most of the time just chatting though, her need for advice was an invitation for her to chat to him and Mycroft rather enjoyed it, she was one of the few things that he missed from London. 

She sent him the occasional puzzle from the Cryptography Department to keep his mind active. He did occasionally miss the constant stimulation which came from his old position but he had found himself enjoying a slower-paced and a much less stressful way of life. 

He walked back to the cottage and switched the kettle on, once he had removed his jacket. Bea seemed to come alive once more as she heard him patter around the kitchen, sauntering into the kitchen and wrapping herself around his ankles, giving him an adoring look which made Mycroft open up the cupboard and give her a treat, a pavlovian response. 

He made himself a pot of tea and brought it to the laptop with two biscuits on the saucer in the attempt to reward himself for his litter picking and writing two pages that morning. He procrastinated from opening his laptop and replying to the emails in his inbox. 

  
He knew that it shouldn’t be that difficult to respond to emails; the decision that he had to make felt particularly weighted no matter what he would choose. It was only a decision that required either a yes or a no, it really shouldn’t have been that difficult or needed that much thought required. 

It was only an email from the coast guard, regarding his position of looking after the lighthouse. The people who looked after the lighthouse only stayed for six months to a year at the most, the post was temporary and was often taken by people who needed a holiday or time away from the loudness and the rat race of modern life. 

  
He had taken the position as an extended break from London, assuming that he would go home once it was over. He thought that he would be bored after several weeks and he would want nothing more than to go back to London but found himself unwilling to leave and unsure what he would do now. 

He had been contacted by his old colleagues about going back to the office of late. The Prime Minister had personally contacted him, requesting that he meet him for lunch and or a coffee and they could discuss matters. He had politely declined any invitations; only accepting invitations from the Queen for afternoon tea since he had retired- he knew that it would be awfully rude to decline her invitation and he enjoyed the baking that came from bakers in Balmoral. 

The position that he had been offered was temporary, a year or two at the most, slipping into his old position to work with Anthea. He did not miss London too much but he did miss the stimulation and the problem solving that came as part of his job. He missed some of the restaurants that he used to frequent and being able to access the pleasures of life such as the opera and theatre with ease. He missed being able to see his brother as frequently as he did before; even if his visits were not welcomed by Sherlock. 

  
He knew that he was happy in the highlands and in this new life; but there was a draw to London and he found himself missing the rare days when he wasn’t tied to his desk, the days when he could walk in the parks and explore the hidden gems of the city, taking in the history. 

He tried to tell himself that there wasn’t anything left for him in London; there hadn’t been for a long time and he doubted that there had been anything for a while, the city seemed to have a siren’s call to him regardless. 

  
He sighed and closed his laptop once more, knowing too well that there wouldn't be Greg if he went to London. He knew that going back to London meant that he would be losing that not so brief happiness that he had started to acquire. 

* * *

Greg did not leave the car for several minutes once he had parked, hesitating to join the others in the park. He could see and hear Andy from the football field; a giant of a man who had a voice to match as he enthusiastically waved to the others from the field. 

  
There were several others who were walking down to the pitch; Greg had seen a few of them come out of a car from the disabled parking area, assuming that they were part of the group that Andy had invited him to. 

  
He knew that being worried about playing a game of football was silly; it wasn’t as if he was in school and he was worried about not being picked for the team. It felt too much like engaging with his old self too much, almost worried that he would miss him too much by playing a game of football, being upset and frustrated if he couldn’t play as well as he used to do, making him miss his old life too much. 

He sighed when a text from Andy came on his phone, lighting up the screen, asking him about where he was. He sent a quick reply and got out of the car after a few moments of hesitation, muttering to himself about getting this game over and done with. 

  
He tried to ignore the bundle of nerves that tightened around his stomach as he noticed someone staring at his leg and ignored the urge to hideaway. He had worn shorts that he wore for physio for the game, not owning much clothing that showed off his body or brought attention to him. He sighed to himself, he used to never be this self-conscious about himself and used to be so confident. 

  
He knew that other people wouldn’t even care too much about it once they got to know him. He knew for a fact that people would be more interested in his baking, that’s what happened after he had joined the community and it had stopped their curiosity about why he had come up from London. He was confident about other parts of himself, he had managed to attract a bloke like Mycroft Holmes after all, it was all the reason to be confident. 

“I was wondering where you were!” Andy called out upon seeing him, waving him to join the group enthusiastically. “I thought that you had chickened out on us.”

Greg walked over the group and tried to be more confident than he felt, nodding in greeting to the other members of the group. “Couldn’t get a parking spot,” he replied. 

“Which one of you has been parking squint?” Andy asked, a grin on his face. “Bet it was Ben, you’ve got that bloody big car of yours and can’t park it properly.”

  
The group quickly fell into bantering with another; teasing Ben about his parking abilities. Greg could tell that the group had been together for a while or at least everyone seemed to know another for a while with how freely they spoke to another. He missed the Yard for a moment, he missed going to the pubs with his workmates and workplace banter; it was the best part of the job and it often helped him get through the tough moments that came with the job. 

They divided everyone into two teams; Andy decided to place him on his team. The people on his side were keen to show him their best tricks to kick a football with his other leg, it had been something that had never come up in physio or he had missed the time when he was supposed to learn with his desire to leave the sessions as soon as he could; he disliked how they made feel helpless and how simple tasks that he took for granted were more difficult. 

The rules weren’t taken that seriously, the game just seemed to be a matter of getting the ball into the goal. Some of the group took the game more seriously, puffing along the field and trying to do impressive kicks as if they were professionals, trying to compete with the younger lads who had sport legs in the group. 

  
He tried to keep up a good speed but found it difficult to run, having not tried to do so since the early days of getting his prosthetic for the first time. He managed to keep up a jog, for the most part, but he spent a good bit of time walking along the field which some of the others did as well. Tony hobbled along the field on crutches, going faster than Greg and some of the other blokes.  


“Are you going to kick it?” Andy asked nudging Greg’s leg with his foot. 

  
Greg looked down and realised that the ball had ended up in his direction, he hadn’t been paying attention. He grinned at Andy and kicked the ball. It didn’t make the net, one of the younger lads on his team quickly ran towards it and kicked it in the net, resulting in a loud cheer from the lads on his team and then running around in celebration as if they had won the World Cup. 

The ball was quickly retrieved and the game started again, Greg suddenly feeling boldened found himself racing around the field, trying to get the ball and feeling younger than he had done so in years. He jogged around the field trying to keep up with the others to the ball. 

As he tried to make a lunge for the ball, someone from the other team had the same idea, colliding into him, pushing him to the ground with a loud thud, the air pushed out from his lungs. 

  
Strong arms pulled him back on his feet, holding onto him as he got his balance, moving from one foot to the other to make sure that his leg was still on secure and wasn’t damaged. He grimaced and apologised for falling, it had been such a long time that he had done so. 

  
“Are you still wanting to play?” Andy asked, clapping Greg’s shoulder hard. There wasn’t a look of pity on his face or on any of the other lad’s faces, it was rather refreshing, people back home normally made a big fuss when he had fallen over. His mum was rather guilty for it when he struggled with the stairs of the house when he had moved in with them right after he got his prosthetic. 

Greg shook his head, a shooting pain went up his leg and he had a stitch in his side. “I think that I need to sit down for a few minutes. I’m alright,” he said, sending a smile to the group. 

“I’m expecting you back on in ten minutes!” Andy called over as Greg made his way to the bench, limping slightly. “I’m not letting you have a fall and give up!”

Greg nodded and smiled to himself. He knew that if he needed more time then it would be alright as well, he had the feeling that Andy was just glad that he joined them. It had been years since he had a kick about and he forgot how much he missed it, he thought that he would definitely have come back. 

* * *

“I’ve heard that you had your leg eaten off by Crumble,” Mycroft said, letting out an amused noise. He gratefully accepted the mug of tea that Greg made for him and sat back in the comfortable armchair with Crumble on his lap. "I heard the story when I was in the library this morning."  


“Andy said that it is good to have a story,” Greg tried to explain, still in his muddy clothes from football. He had seen Mycroft in the shops as he parked the car and had invited him over to the flat, full of this sudden burst of confidence that he had gained from being out that morning. “It keeps things more interesting. Mrs Rowe’s grandchildren saw my leg and they thought that I was a pirate.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose that it is the Halloween costume this year?” he asked, giving Greg a small smile. 

“I’m thinking that I might go something more original than a pirate,” Greg said, “I need to ask the group what they go as for Halloween. It came up in conversation, one of them, Steve went as Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump one year apparently.” 

He became suddenly rather aware that he was still wearing shorts, feeling rather exposed as he realised that Mycroft could see his leg. He noticed that Mycroft was looking at him, not saying anything for a few moments. 

  
He pulled down the leg of his shorts in an attempt to hide away from Mycroft, causing a confused expression to appear on his face. Mycroft smiled at the time and shook his head, “You have grass in your hair and there’s dirt on your nose,” he said. “May I ?”

  
Greg nodded, letting out the breath that he didn’t realise that he was holding. Mycroft’s fingers gently reached over to his face, his fingers rather cold but pleasant on Greg’s face as he swiped away the dirt on his nose. He shifted forward so that Mycroft could remove the bits of grass from his hair with gentle fingers, causing Greg to let out a hum of pleasure.

He almost forgot how wonderful a simple touch could be’ it felt so wonderfully loving. His feelings of being exposed and of vulnerability soon disappeared, only being able to focus on how wonderful human contact could be. 

He leaned forward to kiss him, a caste kiss to thank him and partly out of relief, thrilled that Mycroft could see him and not look at him with pity or as anything other than just Greg. 

  
Mycroft happily responded to his kisses, seeming rather thrilled with the newfound confidence that Greg had suddenly found after a game of football and not at all bothered with the mug that had ended up on his clothes and that he smelt of sweat from football. He had the sudden realisation that he could properly trust Mycroft; he hadn’t had that feeling in quite a long time and it had taken him by surprise.   
  
He had the feeling that things felt rather right with Mycroft, he didn’t know what exactly, but he knew that they felt rather right.

“Is it alright if we can just sit on the sofa?” Greg asked, suddenly feeling the ache in his body and sudden tiredness coming over him. He blamed running around for football instead of feeling suddenly emotionally worn out from his anxiety from feeling exposed to Mycroft. 

“That is more than fine with me,” Mycroft said with a smile. His fingers somehow ended up wrapped up in Greg’s once more without being aware of it, Greg didn't want to move them. “Can I try and get the grass out of your hair again?” 

  
Greg nodded and smiled as Mycroft made his way to the sofa. He brought over a blanket and covered the two of them with it as he moved to lie with his head on Mycroft’s lap. He sat up for a moment to grab the remote and after a moment of debate, took off his leg, making himself comfortable on Mycroft’s lap as he flicked through channels to find something to ignore as Mycroft ran his fingers through his hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos for the chapter, they really mean so much for me. 
> 
> I hope that chapter is alright, I'm writing sooner than expected. I wanted to write something a bit nice and fluffy, giving Greg some happiness to help cheer myself up after a break up a few days ago, thankfully it's helped!


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock had decided to send him an anniversary card, a morbid creation that looked as if he had designed it himself- he must have done so as Moonpig wouldn’t have made something like it. He knew that he shouldn’t have laughed at the card, he hadn’t laughed at the last four that Sherlock had sent him but he did. 

It seemed as if it was something that came from the nineteenth century with how morbid it was, an anniversary card for his missing leg. The card was black and it had an image of a sketch of a severed leg on it, a simple message of ‘thinking of you,’ on it with Sherlock and John’s signatures on it. Greg wondered how Sherlock managed to get John to sign the card with how morbid it was; the last four cards were rather twee decorated with images of flowers and animals on them.

He knew that he shouldn’t have found it amusing but it didn’t stop him chuckling at it. It was just typical Sherlock, he found it difficult not to be amused by him at times. He was rather unintentionally funny, often getting annoyed when people laughed when he was being serious. Sherlock made him laugh hysterically when he was in the hospital right out of surgery, he was sure that he would have cried if Sherlock wasn’t there arguing, almost begging the surgeon to take the leg to use it for an experiment. 

He knew that he shouldn’t have laughed, he didn’t know what else to do and he blamed the pain killers that he was on. He couldn’t even think about what experiment or use that Sherlock would have had for his leg. He had been curious admittedly and the thought crept up on him during slow days in the bakery, amusing himself with them, he did have an odd and rather dark sense of humour after being in the police over twenty years- it was a necessary coping mechanism. 

He took a picture of the card and sent it to Andy and the group chat that the lads from football were in, they found it just as hilarious as he did. He had played football with them several times now and he had gone to the pub with them after, he believed that he could call them mates, especially Andy. 

They talked mostly about sports and they were great for a laugh, forming a bit of a support group for another as well. Greg was not sure if football was intended to be one but it had been one for him and helped him feel more like himself again or at least a happier version of the person he was now. 

He looked at the card once more and smiled tightly before stashing it away, unsure what Mycroft would think of it- horrified that Sherlock had sent him something like that. 

He wondered if Sherlock had ever mentioned to it what happened to Mycroft, he had been injured as well- the lucky bastard managed to get out with just a dislocated shoulder and covered in bruises. He must have used one of his nine lives to get away relatively unscathed.

He would have to get Sherlock to visit him soon, John and Rosie as well. He did miss them and video calls weren’t the same as talking to them in person. He wondered if he would be able to visit London eventually. He knew that it would be difficult to go back to London and be the person he used to be even just for a visit. He wasn’t too sure if this version of him would be able to fit into London or even see the city as he used to do. He worried about missing his old life too much and the old version of himself too much. 

He wanted to visit but he was not quite sure if he was ready to do so yet, but he knew that he would be able to do so one day; he just didn’t know when. 

Sherlock left a note on the back of the card. A simple and direct note that let him know that he was planning to visit, hardly giving him any notice of when he was to arrive. He wondered if it was another one of Sherlock’s attempts to get him back to London or he was just needing more shortbread. He wasn’t likely to come up just for a visit, regardless of the reason why he was coming up for a visit, Greg was happy to see him. 

* * *

Mycroft sat at his laptop and sighed at the blank document. He had been at his laptop for ten minutes already and he had thought that he would have at least written several hundred words by now. He switched back onto his inbox for a moment, hoping that he would have come to a decision about going back to London. 

He looked at his inbox and sighed, the decision felt particularly heavy and difficult to make. He rarely had moments when he did not know what to do or was unable to make a decision. He had never been indecisive in his life for the most part, always able to make up his mind and come to a decision quickly. It allowed him to excel at his old position and it had stopped multiple conflicts and saved the country from going into financial ruin several times a month. 

He was pleasantly surprised that the country was not in ruin since he had retired. He knew that he made the right decision to have Anthea in his office once he retired, the country would be in utter shambles with anyone else. 

He closed his inbox once more and decided to make himself some more tea in the attempt to procrastinate. He spent a considerable amount of time making up a teapot and choosing what tea to have- deciding on his best Earl Grey tea to reward himself for opening up his laptop and intending to write. 

He thought that writing was supposed to be easy and found himself rather disappointed that it wasn’t. He was rather good when it came to ideas and found himself in a constant state of amazement that he had an imagination. He had expected that behind a desk for the majority of his adult life would have removed any traces of creativity and imagination from him- not that he thought that he had much of one in the first place. 

He moved back to his desk and stared at the blank document once more, supping at his tea. He reached over the desk to Bea and let her nuzzle his hand. She stood up from her makeshift bed that was on the desk, a wicker storage tray that Mycroft used to keep his notebooks and stationery in until Beacon had decided to sleep in it., and stretched lazily before she moved to sit on the laptop once she had nuzzled Mycroft’s cheek with her face. 

Mycroft smiled to himself and sipped his tea, he couldn’t possibly try to write or make any decision about going to London if the cat was on the laptop. Cats always did have a way of encouraging him to procrastinate and stop him from working, he found working in Downing Street impossible at times especially when Larry decided to sit on his papers or his briefcase during meetings. It was incredibly difficult to not be distracted by him and pretend not to be interested in Larry, discreetly stroking him when no one was looking at him and discreetly rolling his pen along with the table for Larry to play with during the drags in meetings. 

He lazily stroked Bea’s soft fur, smiling to himself with her loud rumble of a purr. She occasionally would reach over to his hand with one of her paws, guiding it back to her head impatiently when he stopped running his fingers from the top of her head to the tip of her tail for a moment. 

“I suppose that you aren’t going to let me get any work done this afternoon, are we?” Mycroft asked. 

  
Bea blinked slowly and nuzzled his hand, causing Mycroft to smile and let out a soft chuckle. 

He picked up a pen and his notebook once Bea had decided that she needed to take another nap after her strenuous day of running up to the top of the lighthouse with him that morning, eating breakfast and having more treats than she should, playing with his pen and making a mess of his papers, and having two naps since breakfast. 

He tried to remember the idea that he had thought of that morning on his walk with little luck. He wondered if he should carry a notebook with him on his walks, it would be the only way to ensure that he did not forget any ideas that he had come up with by the time that he had come into the cottage and made himself some tea. 

He managed to write two sentences down before giving up on what he was trying to write, unsure if the idea was even worth pursuing. He wondered if he needed to do some research before he could even pick up a pen. 

He carefully removed the sheet of paper from the notebook and placed it in the fire with a sigh. He wondered if Dicken’s or if any of the great authors ever struggled to write. He had wanted to be a writer for years and he had hoped that he would be good enough to be one eventually; it was the only career that he had imagined for himself. He always thought that writing would be a suitable profession for him, it involved being away from people and always being near a pot of tea. 

He knew that he would not be a writer if he did not actively write and procrastinated the amount he did. He sipped at his cold tea, deciding not to move until he had written two pages minimum. 

He tried to find writing exercises and prompts on his phone, trying to find something that inspired him with little success. He watched Bea as she moved off the desk and went onto her cat tree, playing with the mouse on a piece of elastic for several moments before he picked up his pen and started to write. 

  
He wrote more than he had expected, the words seemed to fly out of the pen, making his hand ache with how much he wrote, relieved that he could actually get some words onto paper. 

It was only a silly story that he had written to amuse himself and to procrastinate from writing something properly. It had started off as a poem about a cat in a lighthouse before it had turned into a story. He didn’t think that anyone would have an interest in a story about a lighthouse keeper’s cat who helped to save a boat. 

It wasn’t much but Mycroft was rather pleased with it. It was the most that he had been able to write since arriving in the highlands. 

* * *

“What on earth is this?” Mycroft asked, picking up the card that Greg had left on the mantelpiece. He inspected it and wrinkled his nose at it before he placed it back on the mantelpiece. “Of course this is something that is from my brother.”

Greg lifted his head once he had tied his shoes and put on his leg, holding onto the chair for balance as he made sure that his leg was on properly, removing any air with a clicking noise. “Oh that thing,” Greg said, offering Mycroft a smile in the attempt to ward off his sudden shyness at Mycroft being in the same room as he put on his leg. “I get one from Sherlock every year, I think that it’s John's idea. Rosie has drawn a picture on the back.”

He stood up and picked up the card from the mantlepiece, inspecting the picture carefully, turning his head to the side and closing an eye to see if it could help him interpret her scribbles. “I think that it is a cat...Crumble maybe.”

“It is still awfully morbid of my brother to send you a card like that,” Mycroft said, wrinkling his nose his disgust. 

  
Greg shrugged and put on his coat. “It wouldn’t be Sherlock if he had sent me anything else. He was arguing with the surgeon once the leg was amputated, he was wanting to use it for an experiment or maybe preserve it somehow and use it as a table lamp.”

Mycroft looked slightly pale at the mention of a leg being turned into furniture. He had compromised with Sherlock and gave him his old prosthesis once he had gotten his new leg, unsure what he was going to do with it. 

  
“Sorry to put you off your dinner,” Greg said, grimacing. “I know that it can be a bit much for some people when I talk about the leg, I’m sorry. I often find that people often want to know too much, the whole story or not know anything about it at all.”

Mycroft walked over to him and adjusted the collar of his coat and gave him a gentle kiss. “I think that I forget how morbid my brother can be with how little I see him these days. I thought that raising a child and middle age would mellow him out but I was wrong.”

Greg let out a chuckle and kissed Mycroft again. He let out a breath and ran his fingers through his hair, shifting from one leg to the other. “Thanks for being all fine with this...I know that it might be a bit much for some people,...but, I’m just wanting to say; thanks for treating me like I’m normal.”

Mycroft had a confused expression on his face, his nose wrinkled in confusion which was a rather endearing expression. “Why would I not treat you like anyone else?” he asked. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for treating you like you are a person. Is there anyone who hasn’t been doing so?”

There was a tone to his voice that made Greg suggest that he would be at least having words with someone, the man was the British government, he probably had some strings that could get people exiled at least. Greg shook his head, he knew that he shouldn’t have found it attractive, Mycroft looking out for him and wanting to protect him. 

  
“Some people are a bit weird at times,” he said. “They either pity you a lot or they are just awkward around someone with a disability, or they think that you are very inspiring. I’ve been getting that this week and people going out their way to help me. I think that the whole village knows with the rate gossip spreads.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said. “I can imagine that it would be very irritating.”

  
“It can be at times but there’s not much you can do,” Greg shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets. “You are just great and I’m comfortable around you. You just see me and I’m just happy that you do.”

“I’m comfortable around you as well,” Mycroft admitted with a smile. “I think that you are one of the few people who have seen me or have wanted to do so. I never thought that it would be possible to be myself and have people like me.”

“I don’t understand why.”

Mycroft hesitated before he spoke and had a sheepish expression on his face, almost as if he was worried about saying something that would make him look unappealing. “I was always seen as a bit of a freak and being a bit odd. Sherlock had a similar problem as me but he is more likeable than I am, he’s always been. I just thought that it would be alone. I wouldn’t have minded it, I wouldn’t want to be someone I am not to. I’ve spent far too much time in my life doing that and it only makes you miserable.”

Greg kissed him and smoothed his hair into place, pressing another kiss onto his cheek with a smile on his face. “I like the way that you are.”

* * *

The cheesecake was the most wonderful thing that Greg had tasted. He let out a noise of pleasure when the flavour hit him, he couldn’t understand why he nearly went without a puddle that evening. 

He pushed over the plate to Mycroft’s direction and passed him his spoon. Mycroft looked up from the cup of coffee that he had ordered for pudding. “I shouldn’t,” he said. “I need to be keeping up my figure. I already ate shortbread today.”

“Me either but look what’s happened,” Greg said with a smile, nudging Mycroft under the table with his foot. “I know that you want some, I’ve seen you looking at my plate ever since the waitress brought it over. You can share it with me.”

  
“I shouldn’t,” Mycroft said, taking the spoon that Greg had pushed in his direction. He had a spoonful of cheesecake and let out a pleased hum. “That is absolutely divine. I suppose that you could make a better one.” 

“You flatter me too much,” Greg said. 

“Not enough,” Mycroft smiled. “I am so glad to have finally met you. I still can’t believe that I never got around to meeting you when we were in London.”

Greg was not sure when Mycroft had linked their fingers together, he seemed to have a talent for doing it without him noticing. He did not move his hand, wanting to keep Mycroft close. “I know that it is a bit silly but I do like to think that fate must have been involved. There had to be some sort of force that brought us together.”

  
“Together?” Mycroft asked, suddenly nervous. “Are we?”

  
Greg swallowed hard and licked his lips, feeling rather nervous. He had assumed that they were with how often they had been seeing another and how Mycroft started to help out in the bakery. The customers started to pair them together: ‘Greg and Mike,’ they called them. He did like how their names fitted together. The two of them fit well together and he couldn’t imagine being without Mycroft or having a life without him in it. He hadn’t been that comfortable or happy with anyone else before. They never talked about it but Mycroft never objected when people paired them together. 

  
“Would you say that we are?” Greg asked nervously. “Are you alright if we are?”

  
Mycroft nodded and gave him a beautiful smile. “ I assumed that we were when you asked me to help you with the bakery. I thought that you were a bit old to ask if I was your boyfriend.” 

“We are together then,” Greg nodded. He leaned over the table and discreetly kissed Mycroft, tasting the cheesecake on his lips. 

  
“Should we get more cheesecake to celebrate?” Mycroft asked with a wide grin. 

  
“Two slices,” Greg beamed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments, they mean the world to me and I am thankful for every single one of them. I just wanted to do a bit of a fluffier chapter today, hope that it's alright !


	14. Chapter 14

They walked along with the sand hand in hand and Greg could not be happier. The only light came from the lighthouse, guiding them back to Mycroft’s cottage. The stars were bright and seemed to be aligned for them. He had never seen such beautiful stars when he was in London, the light pollution had dulled them out so much, seeing them once he had moved up to the highlands had been a beautiful discovery. 

“They are beautiful, the stars,” Mycroft commented, his head tilted upwards and looking at them apparently, “You never see anything like this anywhere else.”

“Do you know the solar system?” Greg asked. He thought about a comment that Sherlock had made about the solar system years ago. He and John teased Sherlock about it for weeks, not understanding how a genius such as Sherlock Holmes did not know the solar system. He could remember laughing in Baker Street until his sides ached when John as a joke bought Sherlock a children’s book on the solar system. The book had been gifted to Rosie not long after she and John moved back into Baker Street, Sherlock apparently read it to her at least twice a week according to John’s emails. 

“You don’t know it, do you?” Greg asked once Mycroft did not answer, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. 

“I have more important things to remember than the solar system,” Mycroft huffed good-naturedly. “I never had a use for the solar system...I know the planets but not in the right order or anything about them.” 

“I thought that you would be into space...Star Trek and Star Wars and all that,” Greg said. “No?”

  
“Tolkien,” Mycroft offered apologetically. 

Greg nodded and kicked a pile of sand with his left leg, trying to get more confident in using it for football. “It does make sense,” he said. “All those books. I’ve seen them on your shelves as well when I visited the other day. Have you seen films?” 

  
Mycroft shook his head. “I was worried about them not meeting my expectations as I adored the books when I was younger.”

  
Greg smiled and kissed his cheek. “We can watch the films, I’ve got all the dvds and you can tell me what they’ve got wrong. I can also help you find a children’s book on the solar system and you can learn what order the planets go in.”

Mycroft let out a soft chuckle and led Greg to his door, their fingers still entwined together. He fished around his pocket for the keys, his hand letting go as he had to push and tug the door to open it. 

  
“Thank you for walking me to my door,” Mycroft said, giving him a soft smile. “It was rather sweet of you to do so.”

  
“Anything for you.”

  
They shared a sweet kiss on Mycroft’s doorstep, gentle and loving. There was a flutter in his stomach that Greg had not felt in a long time; not thinking that it was possible to feel those feelings of fragility and hope when it came to love once more. 

  
“Do you want to come in for the night?” Mycroft asked, pulling away from Greg almost reluctantly. “You don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable and I wouldn’t want you to be late for the bakery again.” 

Greg considered if for a moment before he eventually nodded. It had been years since he had done this “Is it alright if I go home and come back to get a few things? I’m just needing to feed Crumble as well.” 

“Of course,” Mycroft nodded, giving him a gentle smile. “Take as much time as you need.” 

“Thanks,” Greg said, rather relieved.”I’ll see you in a bit.” He pressed a kiss to his cheek before he quickly walked back to his car. 

* * *

Greg spent longer than he needed making a small overnight bag, trying to fight the nerves that had settled in his stomach. He could hardly understand why he was nervous, he had no reason to be. He knew that he had little reason to feel nervous, it was only staying at Mycroft’s place for the night. He was comfortable and happy around Mycroft, hardly feeling nervous around him. He felt safe around him and when his mind started to drift when he was working in the bakery, he started to imagine a future with Mycroft. 

They were silly thoughts that went through his head in the slow moments of the day. He imagined going to the supermarket with Mycroft and discussing what he would have for dinner when he went to the corner shop and looked at the tins of beans. He imagined the two of them having walked on the beach together and spending evenings in front of the fire with the cats. He missed Mycroft when he was alone in the bakery and daydreamed about owning a larger bakery and Mycroft working with him full time, their names on the shop sign and they sold Mycroft’s favourite cakes and treats. 

It was a happy fantasy that he thought about and he hoped that some of it would be a reality. He hadn’t looked forward to the future for a long time, hoping that one would be happy. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and wondered when he had gotten so soft, he wondered if it was old age creeping upon him. 

He finished packing up his bag and put food out for Crumble for the next morning. He went down to the bakery and checked on the bread that he was proving for the morning so that it would be oven ready. Once he was satisfied, he wrote a sign and attacked it to the glass door: 

**_The bakery will be open at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I am not ill and no need to worry, mostly talking to you, Mrs Rowe. I will be giving out shortbread with orders this morning to make up for the inconvenience. - Greg._ **

* * *

Mycroft lifted his head from his book when he heard the noise of Greg’s car, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards when he saw Greg get out of the car and walk towards the door with an overnight bag in his hand. 

He moved Bea off his shoulders, she had taken up to draping herself like a fur stole around his neck as he read, her tail often tickling his nose as he read. She would purr loudly in his ear, occasionally nuzzling his cheek with his face. He would have to thank Greg properly for getting him Bea, he had thought that a cat would bring him that much happiness. 

He pulled open the door for Greg to save him fighting with how stiff it was, greeting him with a kiss as he walked through.

A part of him thought that Greg wouldn’t come back; he wouldn’t be upset and understood if he didn’t, he knew that it was a big step for Greg as much as if it was one for him. He had made up the spare bedroom just in case Greg had changed his mind or needed to feel more comfortable.

He looked around the cottage and wondered what adaptations he would make for Greg if they lived in the cottage. He stopped himself when he realised that he was getting ahead of himself and that he should just ask Greg if there was anything that he needed. He decided that the only changes he would make so far were to get some good coffee for Greg and a cafetiere; he knew that Greg preferred coffee to tea, but he never turned down a mug of tea when offered. 

“Decided to open up the bakery at nine tomorrow so we aren’t in a rush tomorrow,” Greg said, placing his bag on the floor and wrapping his arms around Mycroft, giving Mycroft another kiss. “Are you going to be helping out?” 

“If you will have me,” Mycroft smiled. 

  
“Always,” Greg grinned. 

Mycroft moved his bag off the floor and placed it on the table. Greg followed him and picked up the story that he had written about the lighthouse keeper’s cat. He had spent the morning doing some illustrations for it, basic watercolour paintings of the cat and the lighthouse. They weren’t terribly good and Mycroft could point out the flaws but he was rather pleased with them. He had used Bea as a model and spent more time bribing her to sit down on her bed instead of trying to climb on his shoulder. 

  
“It’s just something silly,” Mycroft said sheepishly once he noticed Greg reading the story and the pictures. “It is not too good, it was just a silly story when I was meant to be writing something proper.”

“I think that this is something proper,” Greg said, offering Mycroft a smile. “Did you paint these? Was Bea the model? You can tell with the smudge that is on the cat’s nose.”

“She was,” Mycroft said. “I was meant to be writing something serious and nothing was happening. I thought that it was better for me to write something silly than nothing at all.”

“I don’t think that it is silly,” Greg said. “You could take this to the village library and the kids would love it. Are you going to write any more stories about cats?”

  
“I thought that Rosie would enjoy it,” Mycroft said, a sheepish expression on his face, embarrassed that Greg was reading his silly scribblings. “Sherlock is going to tease horribly but it will be worth it for Rosie. I suppose that Crumble would be able to inspire a story. I can try to write one before I write a serious novel, something properly.”

  
Greg gave him a gentle kiss and his smile was beautiful, it was one of the most wonderful things that Mycroft had seen. “I think Rosie is going to love it. I think that you are stupidly soft.”

  
“I’m not,” Mycroft protested lightly. He knew that Greg was one of the few people that would be able to get away from calling him ‘soft.’ He knew that his reputation for being an ‘iceman,’ would be damaged beyond repair if anyone from his old life knew that he doted on his niece. 

“It can be our secret,” Greg teased, kissing him again. 

* * *

Greg had never been inside of a lighthouse before and he had not been quite sure what to expect when he followed Mycroft inside. The coastguard had phoned Mycroft and asked for him to get a reading for something in the lighthouse, interrupting their evening of being entwined with another on the sofa after a few glasses of scotch, enough to make everything feel warm and fuzzy around the edges. 

The spiral staircase was intimidating and he tried to ignore the wave of disappointment that crashed through him when he realised that he wouldn’t be able to go up them without any difficulty. There were over a hundred steps that were on a tight spiral. There was a handrail made out of rope that he could hold on to but he knew that getting up would be difficult, he knew that it would be a problem even if he had two legs. 

He knew that the stairs would be too much for him and would exhaust him, potentially making him tired and sore the next day. He had already been up and about since four that morning without much of a break, only stopping for a quick sandwich and a coffee that he ate while he cleaned the bakery before starting the cakes for the next morning. 

He knew that it wasn’t good to overwork himself and to be on his feet all day but he did it regardless, deciding that it was much better to keep his mind and his hands occupied than to dwell about the accident and his leg.

He tried a few of the steps while Mycroft was at the top of the lighthouse and unable to see him. The stairs were narrow and the wall was cold when he pressed his hand on it for more support. He didn’t feel too safe being on them, fearing that he was going to misstep and fall down on them. 

He shook his head and decided to sit down on the bench by the door, the cold air chilling his bones. He didn’t even know why he had tried, he hadn’t been too keen on heights and knew that it was dangerous trying to get up the stairs, he couldn’t cope with potentially injuring himself.

He opened up the old dust-covered leaflets that were left on a table, school children used to visit the lighthouse years ago for a school trip, tourists would be there as well. It had been years since it had been opened up to the public, the older children and adults spoke fondly of their trip to the lighthouse and the day on the beach that always happened before the schools closed for the summer. 

He read it from cover to cover in the attempt to distract himself from the crushing feeling of disappointment that had settled inside him when he realised that he couldn’t go up the stairs with Mycroft. He tried to not let things get to him for the most part and he had been doing better these days, but sometimes more days were difficult or he was reminded of things that he could not do.

He placed a smile on his face when he heard Mycroft’s steps on the stone stairs. He stood up when he saw Mycroft come down the stairs with a clipboard in his hands. “Everything alright?” he asked. 

  
“The coast guard was wanting me to check the brightness of the bulb and the generator for the island. Everything is alright and it has saved the coast guard from coming up,” Mycroft said. “The view is absolutely wonderful up there, I’ve not seen the sky so clear.” 

“I’m glad,” Greg said, forcing a smile on his face. 

Mycroft’s brow wrinkled for a moment as he looked at Greg carefully, deducing him. Greg tried to look as neutral as possible, trying to make it difficult for Mycroft to get anything from it, it usually worked on Sherlock for the most part. “Is everything alright?” Mycroft asked. 

“I’m just tired,” Greg sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

Mycroft nodded and kissed his cheek. “Is there anything that I can do?”

Greg shook his head and forced himself to smile, scolding himself for ruining a perfectly good evening with Mycroft. “I’m just wanting to be with you and have a cuddle for a bit maybe.”

Mycroft nodded, putting down the clipboard on a windowsill and started to walk along the floor of the lighthouse with his neck craned upwards. Greg watched him curiously as he walked around, focusing on the floor around the staircase with his neck craned upwards. “Have you seen a seagull or something?” he asked. 

Mycroft shook his head and hummed to himself satisfied at what he found. He took Greg’s hand and guided him to where he stood, angling his body with his warm hands. “Look up,” he instructed lightly. 

He knew that it would be easier to go outside and look at the stars on the beach but Greg still liked the view. Mycroft had moved him so that he could see up to the top of the lighthouse without going up the stairs. 

He could see the stars from the top of the lighthouse and he believed that he saw the moon as well if he tilted his head a certain way. It wasn’t the view that he wanted to see and he knew that it would be better if he could go up to the top but it was still much better than what he could have imagined, lifting his mood. 

“I’m sorry that it is not as good as the real thing,” Mycroft said sheepishly. “I can find out a way for you to be able to see the top. I did not think about the stairs when you decided to come along.”

Greg shook his head and kissed him, trying to reassure Mycroft as much as possible. “I wanted to be with you, it doesn’t matter about the stairs. I’m here with you and I can see the stars. I'm happy.”

“We can always go to the beach to look at the stars,” Mycroft suggested. “I can get a blanket and we can lie down on the beach and watch them.” 

Greg shook his head and kissed him, cupping his head with both of his hands. “We can save it for another day, we have all the time in the world.” 

He kissed Mycroft before he could open up his mouth to say anything, pressing him against the stone wall of the lighthouse He never knew that kissing would feel like that, he hadn’t felt that spark since he was in his twenties, wanting to keep up that feeling for as long as possible and trap it inside of him. . Mycroft’s arms wrapped around his waist as they kissed, a hand sneaking to his back and hovering above his arse, unsure if he was allowed to touch. 

  
He was ever the gentleman, always considerate. Greg guided his hand and looked at him with a smirk. “You are allowed to touch,” he said in a low voice. “You have my permission.”

Mycroft grinned enthusiastically and kissed him deeply before he flipped them over. Greg’s shirt was pushed up the back and he could feel the cold wall against his back, Mycroft’s warm and long fingers tracing along his goosebumps was a unique sensation that made Greg want more. 

They rocked against another, kissing another deeply as if they were at least twenty years younger than they were. He pressed his hand on Mycroft’s tight, trailing upwards to his belt. He stopped kissing Mycroft for a moment, letting out a gasp as Mycroft just the right spot on his neck. 

“Can I ?” Greg asked breathlessly, tracing Mycroft’s belt buckle with his fingers. 

Mycroft nodded enthusiastically and his hand moved over to the front of Greg’s trousers, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Greg nodded and tugged at his belt, letting Mycroft put his hand in, shivering at the contact with a moan once he started stroking him. “God,” he breathed out.”You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you.”

“Probably as much as I want you,” Mycroft breathed out.

He gripped onto Mycroft as tightly as he could, getting himself lost in a sea of pleasure, rocking himself into Mycroft’s touch. He pulled Mycroft impossibly close into him, his hand wrapping around both of their cocks as they kissed lazily and rather messily, their noses occasionally bumping into another. 

Sparks ran down Greg’s spine, the two of them groaning into another’s mouths, murmuring sweet nothings to another. He gripped onto Mycroft’s shoulder hard as if Mycroft was a rowing boat that would get him through this sea. 

  
His orgasm took him by surprise, staring up to the top of the lighthouse and looking at the stars. Mycroft soon followed with his own with a quiet noise muffled by their mouths pressed together. 

“Christ,” Greg breathed out. “That was fantastic.”

  
Mycroft made a noise of agreement and pulled Greg in close, kissing him again. He pulled out a handkerchief from his trousers and wiped them clean. “I must confess that I did not plan for us to do that in a lighthouse.”

Greg hummed to himself as he tucked himself away. “I don’t think that many people do that in a lighthouse but I’m glad that we did,” he grinned. 

“Me too,” Mycroft grinned. “Shall we go back to the cottage?” 

Greg nodded after taking a final glimpse of the stars. 

* * *

  
He was surprised about how natural and easy things felt after they went into Mycroft’s cottage. They cleaned up and they went to bed, it was rather anticlimactic but Greg was happy with how warm and comfortable things felt, surprisingly domestic as they brushed their teeth together and climbed into bed, only having a brief discussion about what side that they preferred to sleep on and where was the best place to put a prosthetic leg. 

Bea had more of a reaction to the leg than Mycroft ever had, unsure of it as he placed it on the floor. She sniffed and poked it, unsure until she decided to wrap herself around it and stroked herself with it, purring loudly. 

  
“Crumble does the same,” Greg said in response to the amused expression on Mycroft’s face. “I reckon that she deliberately does it to make me feel bad when I’m not giving her attention.” 

“I’ll happily take any spare legs you’ve got,” Mycroft commented, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “Means that I might be able to get some writing done.”

Greg barked out a laugh. “First your brother wants to use my leg for an experiment or whatever and you want to use a spare one for a cat scratching post. God, I really do adore you.”

Mycroft went quiet and his face was difficult to read. Greg looked at him, trying to make out the expression that was on his face. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, wondered if he had come on too strong and had been too forward. “Look, Myc,” he sighed. “Sorry if I was being a bit forward, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Mycroft shook his head. The expression on his face melted away, making him look rather touched and slightly emotional. “Me too...I feel the same.”

They shared another kiss before they curled around another. Mycroft’s arms wrapped around him protectively and the duvet up to their chin, the two tucked away in a warm cocoon away from the rest of the world, Bea tucked herself in the small gap between them on the pillow, her fur tickling Greg’s nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos, and the support for the story. I'm working a good bit over the next few weeks but I will try and write when I can and upload soon!
> 
> I've also got a bit of a cover art drawn for me by the lovely Sandwastesinthevoidofmychest, not too sure how I add it in , anyone knows how to do it?


	15. Chapter 15

He woke up to the sight of Greg leaning over him, kisses pressed on his cheek, causing him to smile before he woke up. Bea’s tail tickled his nose as she waved it around happily as she stood up on her back paws to reach Greg’s hand.

  
“Morning,” Greg murmured, his voice thick with sleep and a tired smile on his face. He looked even more beautiful, highlighted by the rising sun from the small parting in the bedroom curtains. His hair mused with sleep, sticking out at the edges and stubble on his face. A rough and unedited version of Greg that no one and hopefully just him would have the privilege to see. “Had to make sure that I wasn’t having just a good dream.”

Mycroft propped himself on his elbows and reached up to kiss him, giving Greg a soft smile. “Is that enough proof that you are not dreaming?” he asked, surprised that he was able to have a conversation in the morning without two cups of tea in him at least. 

“Definitely,” Greg grinned. “I’m so glad that it wasn’t just a dream. I don’t think that I can look at that lighthouse the same way after last night. Tea?”

“Please,” Mycroft replied with a discreet yawn, hoping that he looked rather presentable in the morning and not as if he had just woken up. He cringed knowing that Greg could see his hair ruffled and had willingly kissed him before had brushed his teeth. He lazily glanced at his watch with one eye, sighing at the time. He would kill to have just had more time in bed with Greg, five more minutes, not wanting to leave the cocoon that he had Greg and wrapped himself in. “Do we have a lot to do this morning for the bakery?”

“The bread just needs to get put into the oven and I’ve got cakes that just need to go out. I was clever enough to work ahead yesterday so I could have a bit more time in bed,” Greg smiled as he moved to the side of the bed, wrapping himself up in Mycroft’s dressing gown once his leg was on. “We can have a baking lesson later on if you want.”

  
“Always.” 

Mycroft stretched out on the bed, not attempting to be the slightest bit discreet about admiring the sight of Greg in his dressing gown. It was a hideous item of clothing but not his style but Greg managed to make it look rather good but Mycroft wanted nothing more than to get him out of it. 

He briefly wondered if relationships were supposed to feel this comfortable after a short amount of time, he hardly knew as he only had a few disastrous attempts at them in the past and they hadn’t felt like this. He knew that he could quickly get used to the sight of Greg wearing his dressing gown in the morning. 

He reached out for his phone once Greg had left to make tea, he smiled to himself as he could hear Greg singing along to himself in the morning. He frowned at the email from his brother, announcing that he was going to drop for a visit, short notice as always and without giving him much warning to clean up his home. He didn’t have much to clean up, he had always prided his ability to be organised, the biggest source of mess was the paper and notebooks spread out on his desk despite his attempts to keep the area tidy but cared little about tidiness when he had a rare moment of creative flow and placed sheets of paper anywhere and left half-drunk mugs of tea on the table. 

He wondered what his brother would think of his and Greg’s involvement with another, it had been a thought that had gone through his head since he had first taken a fancy to him and discovered that they were connected to another through Sherlock even if they did not know so in the past. 

He would probably disapprove, Sherlock disliked his work and personal life mingling together. Sherlock had disapproved of his previous partners and had been right to do so, from university boyfriends to his last long-term partner, Philip, who had been unfaithful to him and Sherlock had deduced it from his shoelaces. He did not allow himself to listen to his brother, finding himself captured under love’s spell and unwilling to believe Sherlock, telling himself that he was far too clever and he would surely know if that situation was happening under his nose. 

He entertained the idea that Sherlock would perhaps, begrudgingly approve of him and Greg. He had been unhappy with his choice to come to Scotland but had come around to it, the same with their mother, who ended up buying him that dressing gown to help him stay warm in the cold winters when she finally understood why he was going. 

“What are you thinking about?” Greg asked the wooden tea-tray in his hands with two large mugs and a plate of toast on it. “You are in deep thought.”

  
“I was thinking about how wonderful that you look in my dressing gown,” Mycroft said. “I’m trying to decide if I much prefer you with it on or off.” 

  
Greg barked out a laugh and moved back onto the bed, handing a mug of tea over to Mycroft, pulling the duvet over himself, making himself comfortable. “Do you say that to all the men that you have around?”

  
“The ones who make me breakfast in bed at least,” Mycroft said with a raised eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. 

  
“I’ll make your breakfast whenever you want,” Greg grinned, kissing him 

They ate toast and drank tea in bed together. Mycroft could never understand why drinking a cup of tea was much better drunk in bed than out of it, but it was a new experience to drink tea in bed with someone who he utterly adored. He could not identify if the warmth in his middle was from tea or from happiness from being with Greg. 

They seemed to fit comfortably together even outside the realms of the bakery, he had worried that without it and the number of samples that Greg gave him, then it wouldn’t be the same and they couldn’t exist outside the bakery. His mind often told him and tried to work out the bumps in the road, figuring out what could go wrong, what could make him lose this new found happiness he had. 

He did his best to ignore that thought, allowing himself to wonder: what would happen if it all went right between them? He wondered if the middle age or if it was the change in scenery that allowed him to not be cynical about things for once in his life. He estimated that the odds of Greg and himself lasting and being happy together were in his favor. He was rarely wrong when it came to numbers.  


* * *

“Don’t you think that it’s dangerous to have my brother working in your bakery?” Sherlock smeared, flicking through the village newspaper, perking up slightly when Greg handed him a plate of shortbread. “He loves cakes and shortbread, it would be a miracle that he can get through the door.”

Greg sat down at the table and gave Sherlock a sharp glare. “He’s looking well,” Sherlock said with a sigh, nibbling at a biscuit. “Much better than he has done in a long time. Happier. You are as well.” 

“I’ve taken up playing football,” Greg replied, rubbing at his leg under the table. He always seemed to get pain in his nonexistent leg when Sherlock was around or depending on the weather, or the time of year it was. 

“How is that going?” Sherlock asked, pretending to be more interested in the conversation than he was. He rubbed at his shoulder without thinking, still wearing his large coat almost as if it was a security blanket of some sort. “I remember that John was trying to make you get involved with a fitness group for people with disabilities before but you never went.”

Greg took a long sip of tea, taking the time to figure out the right thing to say to him. There was the simple answer that wasn’t as honest but it was easier for people to deal with or the more truthful one that people did not want to hear as it was too miserable and not inspirational and almost glamorous as they expected his injury and the recovery to be. 

He decided on partial honesty, not quite telling the truth but not exactly lying. It was often better to do what when it came to his life when people asked him questions back home. He knew that no one wanted to know or barely knew how to react when he said that he was miserable and angry because of his injury when he was trying to integrate into normal life again. They expected him to be happy and was almost seen as being inspirational going about his daily life, strangers expecting to hear what happened to him when he was in the supermarket. 

  
“I couldn’t do it at the time,” he said, a half-truth. “I wasn’t ready and I had to figure out who I was again. There’s nothing worse than losing yourself and becoming a stranger to yourself for a while.”

Sherlock nodded and nibbled at the shortbread wordlessly. Greg broke the silence after several moments when it started to feel almost oppressive. “I did like your card, it made me laugh.” 

  
Sherlock lifted his head and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “John said that it was too much but I disagreed with him. He picked the last few cards and I knew that you hated them.”

“They were a nice thought but I prefer the one you made,! Greg said with a grin. “It was morbid as anything but it did make me laugh. The other ones are a bit twee for my liking, a bit like I’ve died by getting sympathy cards like that.”

  
“Mrs. Hudson buys the card for us to sign,” Sherlock explained. “I decided to make you a suitable one.”

“Thanks, ,” Greg said. “I suppose that you wouldn’t find something like that off Moonpig. It’s the best card that I’ve ever received.”

  
They sat in an uneasy silence with another, their visits these days always seemed to have one. The air between them could never seem to clear even after several years. He wondered if things between him and Sherlock would ever go back to the way they were. He knew that it wouldn’t be the same, he and Sherlock didn’t work together anymore but they had been through thick and thin- through hell with him. 

He hoped that things would get better with him eventually, they had to be. He had always been fond of Sherlock even when gaunt, full of cocaine and sourness. He never had children but had always wanted them, Sherlock had partially helped to fulfill those parental desires inside him. 

He walked over to the counter and pulled out a box when the silence had become stifling. He walked back to Sherlock and handed the box to him. . “It’s for you,” he said, when Sherlock looked at the bag confused, not opening it. “Open it!”

Sherlock opened up the box, pulling out an old prosthetic leg that Greg did not use anymore. He was getting a new one, feeling inspired to get one that was much better for playing football and being a bit more active. “You’ve given me a prosthetic leg?” he asked, confused. 

Greg fought hard to suppress the laugh that was threatening to come out. “If I do remember and I might be wrong as I was completely off my face with painkillers, but you were begging the surgeon for my leg, god only knows why... I know that it’s not the same, but you have my leg.” 

  
  


Sherlock let out a rumble of a laugh, causing Crumble to wake up from her perch from the windowsill and shoot a dirty glare at the two of them. She moved off the windowsill, wiggling her tail definitely as she sauntered to a quiet spot to sleep. 

“You know that John is not going to be pleased about this,” Sherlock said, inspecting the leg carefully. 

“He is going to be much happier with you having a fake leg than my real one,” Greg said, letting out a chuckle, feeling the most comfortable with Sherlock than he had done in years. “Don’t tell your brother that I’ve done that for you. He was absolutely horrified with the card that I got from you.”

“How are things between the both of you?” Sherlock asked, considerably more polite than he had been in years. He remembered an email that he had gotten from John about how Rosie was starting to become a lot like Sherlock with her new habit of being direct and her favorite words being: ‘no,’ ‘now,’ and ‘stupid.’ They had been teaching her manners with some success after an intervention with the nursery staff and it seemed to have worked well on Sherlock as well. 

“Good,” Greg said, suddenly unsure if Sherlock would approve or how much he knew. 

“You smell like his aftershave,” Sherlock stated. “You are involved with another, aren’t you? How long?” 

Greg nibbled at a biscuit in an attempt to distract himself from an ache in his leg. “Not too long,” he said. “He makes me happy and I make him happy.”

Sherlock nodded, an unreadable expression on his face. “Have you told him about what happened?” he asked, glancing in the direction of his leg. 

Greg choked on a crumb that went down the right way. The thought of Mycroft knowing about the accident caused a tightening feeling in his stomach. He knew that Mycroft didn’t bother with the leg, hardly giving it a second glance that morning when he was getting dressed, he caught Mycroft admiring his arse in the mirror that morning. He knew that it would possibly change things if Mycroft knew. 

  
“I made up a story about the leg,” Greg tried to explain, clearing his throat.”Fighting the Loch Ness Monster. Crumble eating it or it just fell off.”

“Is that what you would tell my brother if he asked?” 

“I don’t know,” Greg sighed wishing that he had something stronger than tea. “He’s not just going out with me because of it. He doesn’t care about it,” he said, trying to reassure himself against a nasty thought that crept into his head. “It’s not the most exciting story to start off with. It was a case that went wrong and I made a mistake, I followed you and that was it. No one could predict that it would happen, not even you.”

“You’ve been seeing a therapist, that is some nonsense that one would say,” Sherlock stated, looking away from Greg and rubbing at his shoulder. 

“It’s been a new thing,” Greg shrugged. “Started not too long after starting football and it’s been alright, helping me move on with things a bit.”

Sherlock let out a noise, unsure of what to say. They always struggled to know what to say to another these days. “Where is my brother?” Sherlock asked. “Is he home? I did come here and see him as well as you.”

“The local drama club,” Greg answered with a soft smile, pleased that Mycroft had found himself willing to go to the church hall for the drama group after some encouragement to go out of his comfort zone. “He’s doing well up here. He helps with the bakery and he’s writing as well. He’s written a story about a cat that Rosie would like. Is she still daft on them?” 

A soft smile crept on Sherlock’s face at the mention of Rosie. It was a beautiful sight that happened each time that Greg had mentioned his daughter in conversation. He would have laughed if someone had told him that Sherlock would be a doting but unconventional father, he would have laughed. 

“Absolutely,” he said. “She loves going to Molly’s to see Toby. It’s just a shame that John is allergic or we would have gotten on. I’ve been looking into hypoallergenic ones.”

  
“There are hairless ones,” Greg suggested. “I can make sure to put Crumble on the camera when Rosie next wants to have a chat. Extra photos on the emails as well.” 

Sherlock tried to conceal his smile with a sip of tea but Greg could see it. 

They sat in silence once more for several moments before Greg spoke once more. It had been an idea that he had been thinking about for some time, he wasn’t too sure if he could face going to London just yet, knowing that he would miss his old life a bit too much even if he started to feel more settled in Scotland recently. “I was thinking that you and John could have a holiday up here, Rosie as well during the summer holidays.”

“Are you never going to go back?” Sherlock asked, hesitantly. 

“I’m not avoiding London.” It was a half-truth but Sherlock could see right through it. “I’ve got a life up here now and I need to keep the bakery running or it’s going to close. You understand why things are...difficult and this time of year.”

  
“It’s why I decided to visit, to check up on you,” Sherlock murmured. 

  
“You are becoming soft in your middle age,” Greg said. “Never thought that I would see the day. How much shortbread are you wanting then?” 

  
He pretended to take a great interest in Sherlock's hair, pretending that it was the most interesting thing in the room. Sherlock had a confused expression on his face and self continuously put a hand in his hair in an attempt to shield it from Greg. 

“Sorry,” Greg said, trying his best not to smile. “Thought that I saw grey hair there.”

* * *

“This is a disaster,” Mycroft groaned out, trying to brush the flour off his apron with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know why you allow me to work in the bakery. You know that I am much better on the till.” 

The counters were covered in flour and there seemed to be more on the floor than in the mixing bowl. There was even more on Mycroft, flour-covered his cheeks and turned his black apron white. It was his second attempt at baking independently, he wasn’t too sure what he was trying to make. Mycroft had picked the recipe if it was even that, it seemed more like an improvised creation that he was making up on the spot. 

“You aren’t going to get any better if you don’t try,” Greg said reassuringly, brushing off the flour on Mycroft’s cheek with his fingers, pressing a kiss onto his lips once he had removed the rest of the flour. “What are you trying to make?” 

“I’m afraid that I don’t know exactly... a cake,” Mycroft said sheepishly. “You do make it look so easy.”

“I’m a professional baker, love,” Greg said. “Have a sit-down and I’ll make you a cup of tea. We can start again in a bit. Might even use a recipe this time.”

“Do you want a coffee?” Mycroft asked, moving to the front of the counter. “I’m needing to practice with the espresso machine. I think that I’ve figured out how to do latte art, I’ve been watching videos online about it.”

“How is that coming along?” Greg asked, peeking his head through the hatch. “ I don’t know if George Oliphant has recovered from when you accidentally drew a cock in his latte and you're covering the thing in chocolate powder. He could barely breathe with how much he was laughing, thinking that I would call an ambulance for him.”

“I am still surprised that you allow me to work in the bakery after that incident,” Mycroft murmured, his ears turning pink. “I suppose that you keep me on because of nepotism.”

Greg kissed him again. “Perhaps, just a little bit but the customers like you as well.”

He started to clear up the mess that Mycroft made in the bakery and he could hear the whirl of the espresso machine and the hiss of the frother. He wondered what Sherlock was up to, he left the bakery with the leg in his hand, not bothering to put it upstairs in the flat before he left. He was apparently going to the beach, Greg had no idea and was not sure if he wanted to know what Sherlock was doing- probably doing more than collecting seaweed and sand samples for an experiment. 

  
“Have you seen your brother?” Greg asked, moving to stand by the door once he had cleaned up. He watched Mycroft pour the milk into the coffee with an expression of great concentration on his face, his nose wrinkled up and his tongue between his teeth. It was surprisingly endearing. Mycroft was endearing, especially in an apron. 

“He’s visiting tomorrow before he goes home,” Mycroft said, once he finished pouring milk into the coffee with a sigh. “He was a cause of interest when he walked past the church hall with a leg. “

“I ended up giving him an old one that doesn’t fit and is worn out,” Greg explained. “I didn’t have a use for it and it was taking up space. He could do something with it...make a lamp or something, I don’t know.”

“It’s not that good,” Mycroft said, as Greg took the coffee that was on the counter. “It was supposed to be a heart but it looks like a blob.”

“Coffee is coffee,” Greg said between sips. “It’s absolutely wonderful, thank you.”

Mycroft made himself a cup of tea, helping himself to the shortbread at the front of the shop. He gave Greg a soft smile as he joined him at the table, their fingers linking together without them saying a word or even noticing, almost a magnetic connection between their hands. 

“How was the drama club?” Greg asked. “Are you doing anything interesting?” 

  
“Panto,” Mycroft said, pulling a face. “I thought that we would be focusing more on plays about Scotland. I’ve offered my services to perhaps write something once the show is over, it would be much more entertaining.”

“That’s great!” Greg said with a smile. He felt joy run through him as he wondered that Mycroft planned to stay a bit longer in the community if he was offering to write a play for the drama society. “Are you not going to do panto?”

“I’ve offered to help to organize the show, a behind-the-scenes role,” Mycroft said. “I thought that it was more fitting and it shouldn’t be that difficult. I did have a minor position in the government.”

  
They laughed together, their knees bumped into another under the table. There was something surprisingly intimate about shared laughter that Greg rather liked, it was one of the ways that he believed that people were the most connected with another being.

“I need to spend some time in London,” Mycroft said rather apologetically, breaking the comfortable silence that had formed between them. “My old job, certain people are needing me to help deal with a crisis and I was wondering.” 

“Wondering about what?” Greg asked. 

  
“ Would you like to come with me?” Mycroft said. “It is only for a week or so. I have been thinking about it for some time, I’m mostly going as a favor for a dear friend of mine. She has been needing me and the idiots hardly listen to her at times, old boys club mentality, if you understand what I’m meaning.” 

Greg let out a breath and tried to ignore the tightening in his stomach. He barely gave the moment a thought before he nodded even if he knew that it would hurt to go. He knew that he would follow Mycroft without a second thought or a question about it. It just made sense to do so. With how he felt about Mycroft, he would willingly follow him to any place or to any university. He just wanted to be there even if it would possibly hurt. 

He hoped that being with Mycroft in London would be enough to chase away his demons. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the positive feedback for the last chapter and it means so much to me. All of you are far too lovely ! 
> 
> Thank you for any comments and kudos! Hope this chapter is alright!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted this chapter earlier than I planned as I'm working a bit next week, I hope that you don't mind too much! Hope that it is okay!

Sherlock had been sat in the armchair for ten minutes with Bea on his lap and he had not said a word since he had been invited in other than a request for tea. Mycroft sat in the armchair, unsure what to say or if he should pull out a board game for them to play, he believed that there was Buckeroo that was left from the previous lighthouse keeper in the cupboard, perhaps Operation and it would be able to keep them occupied instead of sitting in silence.  


  
“What are you doing with one of Greg’s legs?” Mycroft decided to ask. He was up until the early hours of the morning trying to figure out why his brother had one and what he would do with it. It had been the source of village gossip since his brother was seen walking around the village and the beach with it. 

“He gave it to me,” Sherlock answered simply. “I would much rather prefer to have his real one but the surgeon refused to give it to me. It was apparently a biohazard and not safe for me to take it.”

“Why did he give it to you?” Mycroft asked again. 

“It was a joke, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as if Mycroft was rather stupid. “I thought that you had a sense of humor. Lestrade has a rather dark sense of humor at times, I suppose that it comes with being with the police for so many years. His jokes were awful but they were amusing at times.”

“What are you going to do with the leg?” Mycroft asked, a hiss-like quality to his voice. “You’ve made everyone in the community talk and they want answers. There is already a story about you being a body snatcher going around and you are apparently a vampire. They almost called the police on you but I saved you. They are going to talk about me, knowing that I’m related to you.” 

“People are going to talk regardless of what you do,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “Why do you care about what they say? They would already raise enough eyebrows with you being a hermit in a lighthouse and being homosexual, not going to church and the list goes on.”

  
“Why are you here?” Mycroft asked with a sigh. 

  
“I was seeing Lestrade,” Sherlock stated, rubbing his shoulder. “The two of you are involved with another. I suppose that you are with him because he owns a bakery and you would have a constant supply of baked goods.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Mycroft asked, a confused expression on his face. “I am not with Lestrade because of his bakery.”

“Is it because of the leg?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft quickly shook his head, almost offended that Sherlock thought that of him. The fact that Greg was missing a leg did not cross his mind. It was hardly important to him, he had been drawn in by Greg’s personality and how kind he was than what he looked like. The fact that Greg was handsome and had a grin that made Mycroft go weak at the knees when it was flashed at him was a welcome bonus. “How can you think of me like that?” he asked in a low voice. 

“I was just wanting to make sure,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “He has been through a lot and he is a good man. You know our history together and he has helped me so many times. I believe that you would treat him well. I trust that you will make him happy. ”

“Of course I will,” Mycroft said. “Are you giving me your blessing? Your approval for a relationship with Greg?” 

Sherlock let out a disgusted noise but he had a faint smile on his face. He quickly looked away and turned his attention to Bea, who was trying to groom his curls with her hair. “You are getting incredibly soft in your middle age,” Mycroft said.

  
“Ditto,” Sherlock said.

They sat in comfortable silence, sipping tea together. Mycroft was unsure what to say, still surprised that Sherlock had given him his blessing for being involved with Lestrade, he had expected him to act a lot more negatively towards the matter. He moved to his desk and handed Sherlock a bound copy of the story that he had been working on that he had made. 

  
“Bea the Lighthouse Keeper’s Cat?” Sherlock read out. “I thought that you were meant to be writing a serious novel or at least something pretentious.”

Mycroft looked away, suddenly feeling embarrassed about what he had given Sherlock, unsure if he should have pretended it was a joke. “I was procrastinating from my novel,” he murmured. “I thought that Rosie would enjoy it. She does adore cats and she is becoming rather good with reading if I do recall correctly from your last email. It is her birthday soon enough and I suppose that this is a present for her.”

  
“She would,” Sherlock said, flicking through the pages and looking at the illustrations that Mycroft had spent hours perfecting. “She does miss you.”

“I’m going to be in London for business and...I could come over for a visit if you would like me to,” he suggested with a tone of uncertainty. “I know that you have never cared much for when I have visited before but I would like to see Rosie... if that's alright with you.”

  
“She will be expecting you to bring your cat,” Sherlock said simply after several long moments. 

  
“I can ensure that it happens,” Mycroft said offering Sherlock a small smile that was returned. 

* * *

He was greeted by a wall of sound as he and Mycroft stepped off the train. It was a shock to the system, his brain almost unable to cope with the amount of noise and activity of the train station. There had to be several hundred people in the bustling station. Commuters, locals, and tourists, each caught up in their own worlds and a place to go to, but each of them connected by the train station. 

He already felt like an outsider even though he had spent several decades in London and considered it to be home. He had no idea if it was old age or it was after spending so much time away, but he couldn’t remember London being so loud or being that fast-paced. He had been in London for less than ten minutes and already found himself wishing that he could go back to the bakery. He at least had an idea of who he was back home and it was much quieter. 

He had no idea how he managed to convince himself to go, or why he had even decided to take the train. Mycroft had offered them to go in a private plane but he had insisted on taking the train, hoping that it would give him more time to work up the courage to go to London. 

  
Mycroft had insisted on paying for their tickets, first class of course. He had organized where they would be staying, apparently, he still had a home in London even if he had packed up and moved up north. Greg didn’t even know why he had allowed himself to be surprised by that information. He knew that Mycroft was posh but he often forgot, he was just so ordinary back home and nothing like the snobs that he had come across when he was in London. 

There was a black car waiting for them outside the station. A posh car with tinted windows that Greg could vaguely remember seeing around Scotland Yard years ago or outside Baker Street. A driver greeted Mycroft, taking their bags and placing them into the boot of the car. Mycroft had insisted on taking his beloved cat with him. Greg knew that Mycroft wouldn't willingly part from Bea and organised for her to be taken to his flat by a smartly dressed woman the evening before as she handed him a briefcase of paperwork and files. 

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked, squeezing his hand. Greg was not sure when he had wrapped his fingers around his and tightened his grip around his hands, needing the comfort, almost if it was the only thing to stop his anxieties from showing. 

  
Greg forced himself to smile and shuffled closer to Mycroft as much as his seatbelt would allow him, leaning on his arm. “I’m just feeling tired.”

  
“We can go to bed once we get there,” Mycroft murmured. “It’s been a long day for the both of us. You were tossing and turning the whole night.”

  
Greg grimaced and looked away from Mycroft, pretending to have developed a sudden interest in the window. “Sorry, if I woke you,” he said. “I get nightmares sometimes and I get grief with my leg sometimes.”

“Do you have problems with it often?” Mycroft asked. “Is it anything to worry about?”

“ I probably did too much yesterday and I was paying for it, I did have a fall in football the other day- I’m fine and you don’t need to worry,” he said quickly before Mycroft would fuss and see him as anything less. “ I’ve got a ghost haunting my missing leg or a ghost leg that likes to bother me at times.” 

  
“A ghost leg?” Mycroft asked, an amused expression on his face. “What helps when your leg is haunting you?”

“It’s not so bad now,” he shrugged. “Painkillers if I’m really sore but I’m usually fine if Crumble sticks her claws into my prosthetic or I stab my leg with something. I ended up learning about it in a physio appointment.”

  
Mycroft pulled a face at what he said, unsure what to say to him. He didn’t expect Mycroft to say anything, no one really knew what to say to him when he ever talked about his leg if it wasn’t inspirational. “If it makes you feel better, Myc,” he said, trying to joke. “I know what leg to stab, I don’t get them mixed up.”

Mycroft offered him a half-smile, clearing his throat. “Is there anything that I can do to help when you are like this? Other than stabbing your leg?” 

Greg shrugged, unsure. He hadn’t had anyone there to help when he was tired and sore, usually only having Crumble to keep him company on a bad day. He didn't like the fuss from people or people treating him as he was fragile, usually keeping himself going on his bad days so people didn't feel the need to treat him with kid gloves. “I’m not too good company when I’m sore," he murmured. "I usually need to be on my own and sleep it off."  


“I’m not either when I get migraines,” Mycroft confessed. “I had my assistant bring me pain killers and tea but that was it, she was the only one who could put up with my foul temper.”

  
“I couldn’t imagine you having one,” Greg said, shaking his head. 

  
“I did in my old life,” Mycroft said, looking out of the window. “Not so much now. I’m happy now. The sooner that I leave London and go back home, I will be even happier.” 

“Me too,” Greg murmured.

* * *

He must have forgotten how small his home was in London since he had moved up to Scotland. He had forgotten about the large staircase and how cramped some of the rooms were; how he used to have to go upstairs to get to the bedroom and the bathroom. The guest bedroom had been turned into a home office years ago after he hadn’t had any visitors in quite some time. He wondered if it would be suitable for Greg to stay in his home or if he should get a hotel, at least put a bed into the spare bedroom at least.  


“We can go somewhere else,” he said to Greg. “I should have just gotten a hotel. I can get something for us that is more appropriate.” 

“I can manage,” Greg muttered out. “I’m not used to this staircase, I’ll be fine once I’ve been up and down it a few times. What door is the bedroom?”

“The first door to the right. The bathroom is just across from it.” 

He watched Greg slowly go up the stairs, holding onto the handrail as he carefully navigated up the stairs. He stood behind him as he walked up, unsure if he was going to fall or if he should offer to assist or not, suddenly feeling rather redundant. 

  
“I can manage on my own,” Greg grumbled, once he caught him hovering behind him. “I’m not fragile or I’m going to break. I much prefer it if you didn’t fuss, it was half the reason why I started to like you in the first place.”

  
“I wouldn’t want you to fall or hurt yourself,” Mycroft said. 

  
“If I do, then I’ll get back up,” Greg said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You would hate to see me play football then. I fall and trip a lot. I can't do with you treating me different or fussing over me as everyone else does.”

  
Mycroft mumbled out an apology, unsure about how much he was supposed to fuss. He knew that he should have asked Greg what he needed to be able to stay comfortably in his home. He hadn’t asked originally, knowing far too well that he would go over the top and he would even consider a renovation in preparation for Greg if required.

“I’m being grumpy, “ Greg said, turning to look at Mycroft once he was upstairs. “I’m sorry. I know that you are meaning well. Your home is lovely by the way.”

“I do much prefer the cottage,” he confessed, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of homesickness that went through him. He had never thought that he would want to leave London years ago; believing that living there was as vital to him as breathing but he had found himself having second thoughts, only finding himself content so far as he was with Greg. 

“I forgot how loud London was,” Greg said. “You can just hear all the cars and the people, ambulances. It was like I had walked into a cloud of sound when we were in the station. It feels like a culture shock.”

“I felt like I had one when I moved to Scotland,” Mycroft said. “I really do not miss the noise. I suppose that there isn’t a chance of you wanting to move back.”

  
Greg shook his head, hesitating slightly before he gave his answer. “I’ve got a bakery at home and I’ve got a life in the community. I’m not needing much else. A hot shower right is the only thing that I can think of. To sleep as well.”

Mycroft nodded, trying to avoid his grimace and scolding himself when he hadn’t thought about accessibility for the bathroom. “Is there anything that you need?” he asked, unsure how to bring the topic up. 

  
“What do I need?” Greg asked, a smirk coming on his face. “There are quite a few things that I could need...you for a start.”

Mycroft shook his head, unsure how to bring it up, not wanting to bother Greg much with his fussing. He did not want to be thought of as inconsiderate towards Greg. “You might find it difficult to...shower,” he trailed off. “What do you have in your flat? I’m sorry to ask and fuss.”

Greg shook his head and pecked him on the lips. “You don’t need to look as if I’m going to tell you off when you ask me questions like that. I just didn’t want you to treat me differently from what you have already done. I’m expecting you to flirt with me the whole time and for us to fool around, I just didn’t want you to fuss over me like what other people do.”

Mycroft perked up. “I will definitely be doing those things,” he said with a smile. “It sounds like you’ve got ideas already.”

  
Greg kissed him, a lingering kiss that tied his stomach in knots. “I’ve got plenty,” he grinned. “I just have a bar to help me get in and out and I’ve got a bench at home. I’ve got creative ideas with those as well.”

“You will have to enlighten me,” Mycroft grinned. “I thought that you were tired before.”

“Not tired enough to not fool around,” Greg smirked, kissing him again. “We will have to break in bed. It is pretty tame compared to a lighthouse, but I reckon that we can have a good time.”

* * *

“Has anyone told you that you look amazing in a suit?” Greg practically purred, lounging around the bed and still undressed, only wrapped around in the sheet. He looked at him admiringly, his eyes lingering on his arse. “You should wear one more often.” 

  
Mycroft fiddled with his cufflinks, deciding to wear his favorite pair that were made from a pair of Rudy’s best diamond earrings for extra luck. He felt as if he was putting on a costume as he put on the suit, not feeling as confident as he used to in them. “I feel like you are just saying that because you had an orgasm.”

  
“Perhaps,” Greg said lazily, wiping the corner of his mouth with his hand. “I’m not happy with you being called to the office already. You looking good in a suit does help to make things better though. I mean it that you should wear one more often.”

“A suit is not suitable for working in a bakery or walking around in the beaches,” Mycroft said, adjusting his tie and frowning at his appearance, not quite feeling like himself in this outfit. It felt as if he was looking at an older version of himself, pretending to be someone who he was not. He couldn’t wait to strip out of his outfit and put something more comfortable on.

“Keep it on for a bit longer when you are back,” Greg murmured, beckoning Mycroft over, pulling him down by his tie, and kissing him. “I really want to take it off you piece by piece and we can carry on about what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted. I don’t care if he is the Prime Minister, love, but he can’t interrupt us.”

  
“Are you going to ensure that he never does so again?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Of course,” Greg grinned, kissing him again. “Are you sure that you can’t stay?” 

“I’m going to get this meeting done with and catch up on the paperwork that I can’t take home and then I’m going to be yours for the whole night,” he promised. “What are you going to be doing with yourself?”

  
Greg stretched out in the bed, looking ridiculously handsome, the sheet being revealing and not enough at the same time. Mycroft somehow managed to look away, knowing too well that he would happily take off his suit and go back into bed with him and stay there the whole time he was in London. “Might have a night in,” he said. “I’m feeling knackered from all the traveling and what we’ve been up to. Might bake something if you don’t mind.”

“I can get my assistant to get what you need,” he said. “They should be around later with the bench but they shouldn’t disturb you. I do apologise for not asking you before.”

Greg shook his head, leaning back onto the pillows. “You wouldn’t have thought about it before, it’s not something that you would think about in normal life, how do one-legged people shower? You don’t need to go to all this fuss. I could have managed in the bath.”

Mycroft shook his head and kissed him again. “As far as I’m concerned, this is your home as well and I want you to be comfortable...besides, the pair of us might need to sit down if we are following your plans for the time here. You are going to exhaust me, Gregory,” he said with a grin, fully enjoying the sound of Greg’s laughter.

* * *

The meetings dragged on for much longer than he cared for and he found himself wishing that he was back in bed with Greg. He had been back in the office for less than five hours and he had already started to get a migraine from being with idiots and dealing with the pile of paperwork that seemed to grow each time he blinked. 

He wondered how he had put up with this for years, finding himself unable to cope with it for more than a few hours. To think that he had willingly missed special occasions and had hardly taken a day off or a holiday only to spend the time with idiots in the office and piles of paperwork. He found himself regretting the time that had missed and all the life that he had willingly given up on for his job. 

  
He knew that he couldn’t go back to that life of his, the thought of being in London and going back to the office horrified him. He couldn’t understand what had motivated him to stay in the office for that long and being that dedicated to a thankfulness job other than it is his duty to do so. 

  
“You are needing to look over this for Mr. Hunter, Lady Smallwood's assistant, ” the secretary said, walking into his office with a large pile of files and paperwork. A shy-looking woman who was in her twenties, had been in the office for six months had just obtained her degree, she had a chocolate digestive with her tea break, he could tell by the smudge of chocolate by her mouth. “He needs you to sign everything.”

  
  


Mycroft looked at the pile of paperwork that was in front of him and pushed towards his assistant with a raised eyebrow. She seemed to flinch when he did so, clearly expecting him to raise his voice at her. He wondered who on earth she had been working with before or his reputation for being a cold and fearsome figure still lurked in the halls of his office.

  
“There is no need to look at me like that,” Mycroft said, trying to reassure her with a soft smile. “I am just wondering why there is paperwork relating to building repairs and insurance.”

“It is one of our buildings..,” she said, still looking rather terrified. “It was used as a location to discuss the Antarctica situation four years ago. The building had to be closed and was under repairs until recently. The landlord kept putting it off the repairs for twenty years until there was a lawsuit that forced him to take action.”

“And why am I getting the paperwork for this? “ Mycroft questioned. “You can sit down. We are both equals. I’m only a visitor for a short amount of time.”

She carefully pulled out the chair and sat down, a puzzled expression on her face at his kindness. He hoped that she wouldn’t go around to the offices and tell everyone that he was actually a nice person, it would ruin his reputation and he wouldn’t be able to show his face around the office again. 

  
“Lady Smallwood thought that you would like to know about it,” she said. “Your brother was the reason why the building had to close. There had been complaints about the fire escape for years for safety reasons but there hadn’t done anything about it until an incident happened.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and felt a sudden feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach that almost resembled an ache. He wondered what he had happened, he couldn’t recall sedentarily any accidents that his brother had been involving that building, unless he had been out of the country for business. He had been out of England for four months three years ago on an extensive business trip and it must have happened around then, going from the dates on the document. 

“I was not aware that my brother was involved in an accident involving this building,” he said, considerably calmer than he felt. “Was he hurt badly?”

  
“It’s on page three in the file. I took the liberty of marking it out for you on the sheet,” she said. “He only had a dislocated shoulder and a few bruised ribs. I’m surprised that he managed to get out in one piece.”

  
“My brother is rather resilient.” 

“He did much better than the police officer that he was with,” she said. 

  
“Police officer?” Mycroft asked. The feeling of dread grew heavier and heavier in his stomach and he suddenly felt rather nauseous. 

  
“The poor man had to end up retiring,” she said, a look of pity on her face. “He ended up losing a leg along with his other injuries.”

Greg. He knew that it was Greg without asking for a name. It just had to be him. “What leg did he lose?” Mycroft said, swallowing hard against bile that threatened to come up, suddenly feeling rather faint. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to force the nausea to subside.

  
“I believe it was the left one,” she said simply as she was discussing the weather. Her features contorted with an expression of concern, her brow wrinkled and he reached over to grab his hand and pat in a gesture that was supposed to be comforting. “Mr. Holmes, are you alright?”

Mycroft shook his head and waved her away, muttering something about needing a cup of tea in the attempt to get her to leave the office quickly. She nodded and left wordlessly.

  
He tried to pick up the file to read but found himself unable to do so. He knew that reading about the accident would make it far too real. He quickly put on his coat with shaking hands and picked up his phone, walking out of the office without a word. He hoped that the cold morning air would help to cleanse him of nausea and the guilt that he felt. 

  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting next week's chapter a week early due to my work schedule next week and how it is conflicting with the writing one, I hope that you don't mind too much that the next chapter might be a bit late! 
> 
> Everything that I've written has been done with research from some really great YouTubers with disabilities and online articles, and my own experiences with people I know to deal with the topic of disability sensitively as I can, any errors as my own.

He had been unable to sleep too brilliantly without Mycroft in the bed curled around him or he would be tangled around Mycroft, the two of them wrapped tightly under the duvet. Greg wondered if he was supposed to be worried that he could only sleep comfortably with Mycroft with him only after being in bed with him a handful of times. 

He had managed to get a little bit of sleep when Mycroft left for his meeting. He wrapped Mycroft’s dressing gown around himself in the attempt to have him close and to provide a bit of comfort even if Mycroft wasn’t there with him. Bea was in bed with him, curled up on the pillow beside him, her tail tickling his nose when he did wish it. It made him wish that he had brought Crumble with him instead of having Mrs. Rowe catsit for him, Crumble never traveled well and disliked leaving the bakery.

Greg woke up in a cold sweat, feeling a weight on his chest, and felt as if someone was watching him. He opened up his eyes to find Bea perched on his chest, nuzzling his cheek. She let out a high-pitched meow, poking at his cheek with a soft paw. 

“Sorry to wake you up, trouble,” Greg mumbled, lazily scratching behind her ears encouraging her rumble of a purr to come out. “You can go back to sleep if you want to or are you wanting to get some breakfast?” 

Bea blinked slowly at him, licking his nose before she sauntered off his chest and made her way to the door, seeming to understand what he said. She had only been in Mycroft’s London home for a day and she had already adapted well to the luxury with ease. 

“Give me a moment and we can have some breakfast, perhaps watch some telly as well? Hope that you don’t mind the football, I doubt that your dad allows you to watch nonsense like that,” he said, perching on the side of the bed and trying to get rid of the static-like feeling that was in a non-existent leg.

He chatted aimlessly to Bea even if she could not understand him in the attempt to distract himself from the pain. He briefly wondered if talking to a cat as if she was a person was the first sign of madness. It was a habit that had picked up when he had first moved into the bakery and with the nights alone that he spent, still angry and unhappy about what happened and his self-imposed exile to London. He decided that he would rather have a one-sided conversation with a cat than talk to it as if it was a baby- it was much more dignified at least. 

The static-like feeling had been recurring since he had been in London. The pain was manageable for the most part, lasting for several minutes at the most and allowing him to grit his teeth around Mycroft and get on with his day. The most annoying part was having an itch that he couldn't scratch that lasted for hours. 

He reached under the bed for his crutches to get himself ready for the day. It was only five in the morning but there was little point in allowing himself to stay in bed; he would stay in there all day if he did allow himself to do so. He did have days where he wanted nothing more than to stay in bed but he made sure to keep himself busy and it helped him a bit. He made himself busy enough that he didn’t have much time to think.

  
He replaced the crutches with his leg once he had showered and dressed, stashing them under the bed out of sight. He always felt a bit more helpless with his crutches than with his leg; people tended to pity him even more and go out of their way to help. He preferred the independence that his leg provided for him and how he could blend in. 

  
He carefully went down the stairs with Bea walking alongside him before going into the kitchen. He took several moments to get acquainted with the kitchen and found the cupboards and the fridge full. The food somehow managed to get into the kitchen without him knowing, he wondered if Mycroft’s assistants had brought food over when they had brought the shower bench over. 

He found the cat food in the bottom cupboard and placed it in Bea’s bowl before he started to make himself some breakfast. He decided to make some pancakes and made extra for Mycroft to heat up when he came back from the office, chatting to Bea as he did so.

He lifted up his head when he heard the front door open and the sound of Mycroft’s footsteps. “I’m in the kitchen,” he called out. “I’m making some breakfast.”

There was something wrong, Greg could tell from the moment that he saw Mycroft. He removed his jacket with a sigh and dropped his briefcase to the floor, flopping onto the chair and losening his tie. He couldn’t identify the expression on Mycroft’s face but he could see that Mycroft was looking at him differently.

  
He tried to ignore the feeling of discomfort that he felt and offered Mycroft a smile that was only weakly returned before he turned back to the stove. “How was work?” he asked. 

“Long,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “The sooner that I leave London and go back home, the better. I have little idea how I managed to do this for so long.”

“How much longer do you think that you will need to be in London?” Greg asked. “I’ve got pancakes for breakfast if you would like some.”

  
Mycroft shook his head and pulled Bea onto his lap as she stood by his ankles and meowing for attention. Greg allowed himself to smile for a moment, looking at Mycroft’s face to work out the expression, he looked pale and tired but he assumed that it would have been from the office, he did sound rather stressed on the phone. “A week at the most hopefully,” he said. “If they want my advice on matters, they can bring it to me personally or send it over, I have little desire to be in London. I forgot how loud it is.”

Greg flipped the pancake in the pan with ease and placed it on the stack on the plate. “Are you needing some tea at least?” he asked, switching the kettle on. “Are you feeling alright? You are looking a bit peaky.”

“I’m just feeling a bit tired,” he explained briskly. “It is a bit of a shock to the system being back in London and to the office. It’s just a headache that I’ve got, I’ve been long-overdue a migraine.” 

Mycroft stood up and started to make the drinks himself, bringing over the plate of pancakes to the table for Greg and starting to wash up the plates in the sink unprompted. Greg sat at the table, watching him carefully, unsure what he should say. “If you have a headache, you can just go to bed and I can deal with these,” he said. “Are you sure that everything is alright? You did not yourself on the phone.”

  
“Meeting with the Prime Minister,” Mycroft quickly replied, his back turned to Greg. “He is always a cause of stress to deal with. I do apologise if I have worried you.”

Greg nodded and took a mouthful of pancake, swallowing with some difficulty as it suddenly felt dry and like polystyrene in his mouth. He pushed away from the plate and sighed, a tight feeling in his stomach that always seemed to happen when things felt off for him.

He tried to ignore the feeling of static in his leg that hadn’t been able to leave him since he had gotten out of bed with little success. The painkillers hadn't kicked in yet and it had been increasingly difficult to ignore it. He walked over to the kitchen drawer, finding a small knife, and plunged it into his foot when Mycroft wasn't looking at him, seemingly lost his thoughts. He looked down at the blade that was sticking out of his prosthetic, feeling the static feeling starting to clear away with a sigh of relief after several moments.   


  
He looked up at Mycroft who had a horrified expression on his face, looking somehow paler than he had done before. “If it makes you feel better,” he said as if he was talking to Mycroft about the weather. “I’ve not made a mistake when I’ve done this before and stabbed the wrong one. I can tell my feet apart.”

He removed the knife without saying anything, carefully placing it into the sink before he returned to his breakfast. He had the feeling that Mycroft wouldn’t have been impressed if he had done the over the top dramatics, pretending that he had stabbed the wrong foot with a steak knife like what Andy did when they were in the pub, horrifying the waitress, resulting in the girl getting a large tip and Andy a slap across the arm from his wife while the group was in hysterics. 

“I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable,” Greg said simply, pushing his food around the plate. “I’ve been getting grief from it since I’ve gotten up, nothing to worry about,” he added when he saw the change in Mycroft’s expression. 

  
“You haven’t,” Mycroft uttered, his back still turned to him as he made the drinks. “I’m just feeling tired.”

Greg nodded and forced a smile on his face, ignoring the feeling of unease that settled in his stomach. An uncomfortable silence settled between them, allowing Greg to only focus on the sound of the ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall. 

He bit his lip, not sure if he should speak or not. He inspected Mycroft’s face and could tell that he was looking at him differently as if he suddenly couldn’t see who he was. It was why he liked Mycroft so much in the first place, Mycroft looked at him differently from everyone else and could see right through him but saw him as a person and nothing less. He couldn't make out how or what Mycroft was seeing him as now. 

“You are looking at me differently,” Greg said as he worked up the courage to speak to him. “I don’t know what it is but you are looking at me differently. I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable with having to stab my foot but I’m not going to hide or pretend that it wasn’t bothering me. I do have bad days with my leg and it does happen, I'm not going to lie to you. I have to go to appointments and I get grief from it, I fall over as well. I have days where I just want to spend it in days and I get in awful moods, annoyed that the world is not always suitable for me and that people are ignorant or they pity me. If you are with me, then I'm afraid that you are going to have to deal with my bad days, I'm not going to hide that part of my world from you. If you are going to be in my world, you need to know this. I do have good days for the most part but I don't need you looking at me like you can only see my not-so-good ones and reduce me to those. "  


Mycroft opened up his mouth and closed his again, uttering out an apology instead of saying what he was on his mind. “I wasn’t aware that I was looking at you differently.”

“You are,” Greg said gruffly. “You’ve never looked at me like that before, you certainly didn’t do so when you left the bed earlier. Has something happened?”

  
Mycroft swallowed hard and shook his head, somehow looking paler than before as if he was about to be sick. He tried to work out if Mycroft’s expression was of pity but he couldn’t identify it. It almost looked as if he was weighed down with something. 

Greg put down his fork onto the plate with a clatter and stood up, suddenly so tired and frustrated with the silence. “I’m going to get dressed and go for a walk,” he grumbled out. “I need to clear my head.”

He stormed out the kitchen, Mycroft following behind him as if he was his shadow as he went up the stairs, hovering around him as he climbed up as if he was going to fall. “I can go up the stairs myself,” he told him. 

He walked up to them quickly and made his way to the bedroom, pulling out his bag and shoving the few bits and pieces that he had taken out the night before. He perched on the side of the bed, letting out a humorless laugh to himself, shaking his head. He had honestly thought that Mycroft was different from others, a person that he had a proper connection with and could actually see him for he was. He hadn’t felt that connection in years and wanted to hold onto Mycroft as much as he could. He knew that he couldn't be with someone who looked at him differently, not seeing him as a person or an individual with interests and still complete despite what he was missing, just seeing what he lacked. 

He scrubbed his hand over his eyes and stood up once more, sending a message to Sherlock to ask if he could stay the night while he organised tickets to get back home. 

Mycroft went into the bedroom, not saying anything as he stood by the door. He looked towards the bag and nodded towards it, not quite looking at Greg. “Are you going home?” he asked, unsure what to say.

  
“As much as I like you, Mycroft,” Greg said, “I can’t be with someone who looks at me differently. I don’t know what has made you start doing so all of a sudden but I’m not putting myself in a position where I feel uncomfortable or have to hide.”

  
“How am I looking at you?” Mycroft asked, an emotionless mask on his face. 

“Like you don’t even see me,” Greg said cooly. “You are walking around on eggshells around me and not sure what to even say to me. I don’t know if I’ve done something wrong. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with having to stab my foot but that is minor compared to what I had to deal with before this all happened, be thankful that you didn’t have to be there when I was learning how to walk and do things for myself. If you want out or this is too much for you then it’s fine. I’m not going to waste my time on someone who doesn’t see me as a person.”

He brushed past Mycroft out of the bedroom without another word. Mycroft hadn’t said another word, an expression of guilt on his face. He didn’t have time to dwell on why Mycroft had that expression on his face, finding himself on the floor after placing too much weight on his leg when walking across the overly polished floor. 

Mycroft was quickly on the floor beside him, trying to help him up and making a large fuss over him. Greg brushed his hands off and picked up his bag, gritting his teeth against the pain that ran up his leg from how he landed. He pulled himself up and didn’t look at Mycroft, embarrassed and angry that he had fallen down. “I fall over sometimes but I don’t need that much fuss,” he said, bitterly. He felt his eyes start to water and couldn’t look at Mycroft, fearing that he could be looking at him differently; with pity. He couldn’t allow himself to see Mycroft look at him with pity. 

Mycroft stood up and nodded, a hurt expression on his face. He swallowed hard and quickly replaced the expression on his face with an emotionless expression after uttering out an apology. 

  
“Don’t apologise,” Greg muttered out, leaning against the banister to sort out his leg, the alignment must have been knocked slightly as he had fallen and it didn’t feel quite right, feeling a bit off-balance. 

“I am truly sorry,” Mycroft said, not looking at him. “This could have been avoided in the first place.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Greg said cooly. “I put too much weight on a foot that doesn’t exist more than you think and I do fall down.”

“It is my fault,” Mycroft said. “You will never be able to forgive me for what I have done. I do not exact or deserve any forgiveness.”

Greg stood up straight as he had a metal pole up his back to support him and he looked at Mycroft with a confused expression on his face. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I know what happened,” Mycroft finally uttered out. “It is my fault why you ended up like this and my mistakes had ended the life that you had here.”

Greg did not speak. Neither did Mycroft. He could hear the turning of cogs from the grandfather clock that Mycroft had in the hallway as it struck the hour. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and the support, I really wouldn't be writing without the encouragement from everyone. Thank you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for any comments and kudos! I'm not too sure where I am going to go with this but if anyone has ideas, let me know! My Tumblr and Twitter are at @ayla221bee if anyone wants to follow me or anything!


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